Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

28th March, 1938...

The orphanage was vibrating with the hum of uncontrolled whispers. Martha didn't actually have a problem with talking to an acceptable level, but the children were holding in so much excitement that they'd found themselves speaking in hushed tones all day.

Martha didn't mind, so long as no one spontaneously combusted. Some of the little ones were on the brink of such a feat. It wasn't much use telling them all to calm down. Even at breakfast appetites had gone haywire, with some children not eating at all, and others downing twice what they usually ate. As the day progressed, it had only become worse, and by three o'clock Martha had been shooing them from the hallway at regular intervals. Her greying hair worked its way from her bun, so that when the moment arrived, and the doorbell rang, she looked nothing short of frazzled.

The visitor was the middle-aged son of the man who had founded Wool’s Orphanage, and its current patron. He was the unlikely type to harbour a fortune, but Martha was beyond thankful for his constant funding–wherever it came from. She'd met him, but he’d only visited enough times to count on her fingers. It had been a long gap since his last visit. A long, twelve year gap. 

She often wondered what on earth had kept him away. They'd received no word until a month ago, when a letter arrived by an astoundingly intelligent owl, saying he would soon be dropping by. 

Despite how long it had been, Martha remembered the man’s demeanour distinctly. He was always good-spirited with the children, and had a genuine interest in the staff's work and well-being, but it was otherwise impossible to find out a thing about him. He was dismissive of (and clearly uninspired by) the rest of his life and work. The other staff chalked it up to the aimlessness of young heirs, but Martha was never convinced.

Everything about him had screamed at her that it was more than it seemed, but for all she pondered, she’d never quite been able to place him. She was older now, and far more tired, but his visit had instilled an odd kind of excitement in her. The orphanage head quietly damned her tendency to want to stick her nose in everything she didn’t understand. 

Working at Wool’s had never given her a dull day, but she’d always held the sense that there was more to be gained from the world. More excitement. More adventure. In her youth she’d chased it, and in another life she might have had it. And for some reason, she saw it in the lanky, scruffy-haired gentleman who owned Wool’s Orphanage.

Martha sighed, looking around herself at the hallway. The defining feature of the interior at Wool’s was its steady fading, and other than the wallpaper in the common room, very little had changed in the last twelve years. Several of the kids had moved on and left, and those that remembered the man wouldn’t be children much longer. They had done a good job spreading the rumours to the younger ones; fantastical tales of a man with twinkly eyes and an endless bag of sweets. She'd even heard whispers of his little parlour tricks, that Martha rather fondly and curiously remembered. He was anticipated in equal measure by everyone here.

Well, except one, she thought grimly. Of course, the final change since his last visit had been the arrival of the boy named Tom Riddle. Troubled and unnervingly different, Tom had spread an unease about the place that had grown into fear as his quiet dominance over the children at Wool’s developed. Even the kitchen staff were petrified of him. 

She’d never encountered a child with such capacity for cruelty. At first she’d chalked it up to being so young; kids were mean to each other, that was a universal truth of being human. But it was different with Tom. He never aged out of it. If anything, he grew into his wickedness like a true form. 

He wasn’t emotionless, but rather didn’t have (or had ignored the development of) a moral compass. He had no depth of conscience or compassion, but rather he donned and discarded an outward skin of politeness as it benefited him. And what he let out from under the surface was absolutely chilling. 

And he wasn’t nasty by accident, he enjoyed it. Ordinary boys found happiness in toy trains and chocolate, but Tom found it in power. It didn’t help that he was sly, and good at covering his tracks. He was almost impossible to call out, and so his reign of terror went unchallenged.

There must’ve been some goodness in Tom once, but Martha had long since abandoned her quest to coax it out of him. Alone, he was pensive, melancholy, and clearly held great pain. If there had once been signs of humanity in Tom, it didn’t matter. In Martha’s eyes, he was unreachable, and she and the staff had turned their efforts to protecting the other children.

The only reason she considered Tom’s humanity again was because the Riddle boy’s penchant for terror had recently lost its edge. He barely left his room these days. His eleventh birthday had passed unnoticed last December, and in February an incident meant that all his meals were brought separately to his room. Martha couldn't find a space in her heart between discomfort and pity for the silent devil of a child. Perhaps, she often thought to herself, it was better now that he kept to himself. She was ashamed of pushing the problem aside, but she couldn't jeopardise the happiness of the rest of the children for one, doomed boy named Tom.

The doorbell chimed with a harsh tinkle, sending the children flooding from the common room to gather eagerly at the bottom of the stairs in the hall. Martha sighed.

"I don't want you trampling him," she chided, resigning herself to open the door.

Merlin hoped the small wrinkles he’d added to his face would be enough. Ageing himself was a tedious and tiring affair, and other than the suspicions of Martha, the children at Wool’s had never really paid it any attention. It felt surreal to be back again. He knew that for the children, twelve years would have brought a great many changes. Even for Martha, who he had appointed eighteen years ago now, would feel as though an era had passed. 

He felt guilty that he hadn't visited in so long. He used to make an effort every year at least... but “research” had led him abroad. In truth, a growing bitterness had poisoned his old heart. He'd needed a few years to remind himself the world was beautiful. To try to convince himself that it was a gift to see all the Earth’s wonders, and not a curse to have to watch them crumble. He wasn't convinced it had worked, nor that anything could anymore. His hopelessness had caught up with him at last.

And then one night, above the village of Chamonix, he had remembered Wool's. An inexplicable feeling had drawn him home.

His realisation that the twelve year blink in his own history was a far bigger gap for the mortal man had come all too late. He shoved down the guilt that had plagued him to the doorstep, hoping what he'd brought would be enough.

The picture of a 1930s gentleman, he currently donned his long, grey duffle coat with some slacks and a cotton shirt–he’d felt the need to scrub-up a bit–concealed by a navy scarf that he had around his neck. It kept out the lingering cold that came with the early spring days of drizzle along with a peaked cap. Oh, how he had missed the wonders of British weather. He didn't mind though, it was good to be home.

The old sorcerer rang the bell of the looming building and stood back, rocking on his heels and holding his carrier bag behind him.

Nervously, the door opened. An eye peeked out, and retreated quickly back inside after several squeals sounded. Merlin thought he heard the eye giving a firm order to keep quiet and civil, confirming his suspicions that it was Martha. Finally, the door opened again, fully this time, to reveal the stern faced head of the orphanage, corset stiff as her upper lip and donning a black, practical dress. A few more lines in her face, a few more wispy grey hairs... but it was certainly her.

Behind her stood the orphans, clearly attempting to look presentable and orderly, but their barely contained excitement immediately warmed his heart, and he cursed himself for not visiting sooner.

From behind him, he revealed his carrier bag and a bunch of flowers.

"It's good to see you, Martha." Merlin smiled warmly, embracing the woman with his free arm and kissing her hand. She tried to keep a stern face whilst she thanked him, but Merlin knew the twinkle in her eye betrayed she was happy to see him. He liked Martha, and she had always been more curious about him than any of the children. Merlin couldn't help but wonder if she would become one of the few people to ever guess.

"And you, Mr Thomas," she replied, taking and admiring the humble flowers he had conjured on his journey here.

"I trust you can entertain everyone for a moment while I go and–"

But Merlin had stopped listening. Instinctively, his gaze had been torn to fix itself on the top of the staircase, where a gaunt, pale faced boy with perfectly combed hair and a sharp jawline stood gripping the banister. His knuckles were white and he narrowed his eyes at Merlin. The warlock let out a breath, drawing in the foreign magic that had electrified the air around him. There was that inexplicable feeling again.

The boy on the stairs was a wizard. And a good one, at that. His magic stifled Merlin’s senses for a moment, tense with suspicion. The other children warmed his heart, but this child captured his attention in an entirely different way. He felt drawn to him. Connected, somehow. He’d met plenty of other wizards, though, and he couldn’t remember anyone eliciting this kind of response.

"Mr Thomas?" Martha said quietly, oddly concerned.

"Who is that child? At the top of the stairs." Merlin said quietly, not breaking eye contact with the boy whose presence had silenced everything.

"That’s Tom. He’s grown up here but... he’s not like the other children." Martha replied, verging on a whisper.

Merlin nodded slowly, understanding. That was a common response when a wizard showed up in the muggle world. He withdrew his gaze from the boy, realising where he was and blinking back into himself. He handed Martha the carrier bag and tried to look spritley.

"It's so lovely to finally see you all," he said jovially, "I'm Mr Thomas. I think Martha is going to share out a little something I've brought for you." He gave the children a trademark lopsided grin. His messy hair framed his angled face in a goofy way that caused a ripple of chuckles; his eyes twinkled. Martha told the children to gather back in the common room.

The boy named Tom turned from his vantage point at the top of the stairs and began to walk back up them, an almost bored expression on his face.

"Do you mind if I take five minutes?" Merlin said, turning to Martha, who shook her head in a despairing motion, guessing that he wanted to follow the child.

"Mr Thomas, I don't think Tom really wants to spend time with the others, I–"

"He doesn’t need to come down and join us. I just want to introduce myself." Merlin cut her off, surprised at how determined he was to know more.

Martha’s gaze avoided him and she swallowed, leaving something unsaid. Merlin drew back, ears flushing red.

"I have never known you to be unnerved, Martha," he said, voicing his concerns.

“Tom is not a nice boy,” she said reluctantly, “I can’t promise you’ll get much of a response.”

“I’d like to talk to him all the same. Five minutes, I promise.”

Martha sighed, and resigned herself to the chaos of the common room, casting him one last glance that seemed to say good luck , before leaving Merlin alone in the corridor.

Merlin turned towards the large oak staircase. He tried to let calm wash over him as he began to saunter up the stairs. He let his magic seep into the creaky wooden floorboards, following the pull of the boy’s magic along the panelled landing, stopping with a short breath outside a door at the end of the hall.

The door opened before Merlin could knock, revealing the slight and pasty boy, a cool glare on his features. Merlin had no idea why, but he found himself swallowing nervously. There was something cruel in Tom’s gaze that shouldn’t be present in one so young.

"Hello," he said warmly, taking the embarrassing hint of fear and shoving it firmly aside. He wasn’t about to be put off by some pre-pubescent angst. And yet, Tom gave off a dangerousness that set the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck firmly on end. His reflexive feeling was that there was something wrong with the boy, but he shoved it aside, shocked that he would even think such a thing about a child. 

Tom blinked up at Merlin stiffly. 

"So, you're the one they’ve all been whispering about." It wasn't a question.

"I am," Merlin answered levelly, realising that the warmth and friendliness approach wasn't going to soften Tom at any rate, "but I couldn’t help wondering why you were so eager to disappear. I brought chocolate."

"I’m not interested. You can go." Tom answered with a polite but clearly forced smile, like Merlin was some door-to-door salesman he was desperate to get rid of. Before the warlock could open his mouth again, the door was shut in his face, Tom’s smile dropping to a glare before the lock snapped shut.

Merlin sighed. Martha was right, the boy was unpleasant, but it was likely just a defense mechanism. If he was already under tension here, it might be dangerous for him to remain at Wool’s as his magic developed. A pressing little voice in Merlin’s head wondered if he could help.

"Tom..." he persisted, pressing a hand to the door, his tone a little more insistent. "If I wanted to be downstairs with the other children instead of talking to you I would be. Open the door, please?" He tried to reason but there was no reply.

"It won't be long, I just want to ask you about something." Merlin balled his palm against the door into a fist when there was still no movement. He placed his forehead to the wood in despair. Perhaps he had to approach this from a different direction.

He was so unimaginably curious about this boy and the effect he’d had, that it would be impossible to just leave it there and walk away. After all these years of purposeless waiting, he’d forgotten what it felt like to feel motivated. There was something for him to do here.

Tom’s magic was strong and turbulent, and he was worried about what such potential could do to one so young. Thinking of his own childhood in Ealdor, he wondered what could have become of him without his mother’s love, as he was constantly targeted and made to feel outcast. Hunnith had been the one to teach him right from wrong, to tell him time and time again that anger was not a way to use his gifts. He saw anger in Tom’s eyes, and he saw a ghostly version of who he might have been without the right people in his life.

This boy had Martha, but Martha, in this case, was not enough. She could not understand the uniqueness of Tom’s situation. As a result, the boy was already sinking into the darkest parts of himself. When Merlin as a child had reached this stage, Hunnith had sent him to Camelot.

In that moment when their eyes had locked on the stairs, Merlin had been gripped by the desire to pull Tom out. He’d never thought himself a hero, but he wanted to save him. To teach him, maybe. It had been many centuries since he’d wanted to attach himself to a task so strongly. His gut instinct was good, and he would try to listen to it.

He needed more information first. How much did Tom know about the gifts Merlin sensed within him? And what had caused this darkness he carried?

Merlin tried one last time to get Tom to open the door and failed. He stood back a moment, weighing the risk of an idea. The child was guarded, and Merlin needed to give Tom a reason to want to talk to him–this door would reluctantly do nicely.

He raised a slightly shaking hand towards the frame, grimacing and hoping no one would venture upstairs before he repaired the damage he was about to do. 

“I’m coming in.”

He breathed deeply, banishing all trace of the tremor in his hand. He focused, channeled his magic, felt it simmer beneath his outstretched fingertips and in one fluid motion he clenched his fist and yanked it back, pulling the door firmly out of the frame with an invisible force. It hung limp in the air for a moment while Merlin strode into Tom’s bedroom and then fitted itself rather contemptuously back into place after a smooth flick of Merlin’s hand. The warmth faded from behind the warlock’s irises and he took in his new surroundings.

Contrasting to the wooden-panelled, dusty-carpeted landing, Tom’s room was a blank slate. Remnants of a blue printed teddy-bear wallpaper lay plastered to the back wall as if they were the last stand of some long lost vibrancy. To Merlin’s left a bunk bed stood against one of the walls and at its foot sat a small chest of drawers. The single mattress on the bottom bunk looked like it had not been slept in for several days and there were no possessions strewn about on the aged wooden floor as you would expect in an ordinary boy’s bedroom. A single candlestick was all that lay on the bedside table, though a drawer was set into the simple wooden box. There was a locked wardrobe and the back window was shut, the curtains drawn. 

The only place in the bedroom that looked as if it was even used was a desk on Merlin’s right. Tom stood in front of it, attempting to hide its contents.

Papers were strewn about, filled with a furious slanting scrawl. Large books could be seen beneath all the scattered ink pots and broken quills. There were notes tacked to various sheets indicating someone desperately trying to piece something together.

Finally, he turned to regard Tom. 

“Are you interested now?” He threw the boy’s bluntness back at him.

Naturally, Tom seemed surprised, but there was a hint of something else in his gaze, and as the pair stared each other down, Tom recomposed himself, that something else growing across his features until it was Merlin’s turn to be perplexed.

It was hunger. A longing for the power he had witnessed shone in the boy’s eyes as he trained them beadily on Merlin. He examined the old sorcerer as though he were an object in a shop window. 

Merlin was repulsed by the look. It suddenly and awfully hit him that Tom had sunk far further than he thought. No child’s emotions would turn to greed over awe so quickly. This boy saw the world through what he could gain, and even his surprise could barely suppress it. Merlin dared not think what he sought the power for. 

One thing was sure though: if Tom hadn't wanted to talk to him before, he certainly did now.

"How did you do that?” Tom broke out violently. “Who are you?” And then when his initial aggression had subsided he added: “Could I do that?”

"Well, that’s why I’m here," Merlin answered, keeping Tom engaged. He stepped further into the room, considering his next move. Tom knew something. Perhaps he’d felt the connection between them, or maybe he’d experienced his magic in outbursts, as was common for emerging wizards. 

“Can I ask you something? Have you ever noticed you can do things that the other children here can't?" Merlin phrased the question carefully.

The gleam in Tom’s eyes said it all, but he answered anyway.

"Oh, yes. And they’re frightened by it… but I’m like you, aren’t I."

What did that mean? That he knew he was a wizard? It was very presumptuous, and the pride with which the boy had spelled out the children’s fear put Merlin on edge. He began to pace about the strange room, seriously questioning the gut feeling that had wanted to help this boy,  and reacquainting with the instinctual reaction that had warned him something was very wrong. 

Tom’s eyes darted wildly between Merlin and the door, as if he was continually pinching himself. His expressions were minuscule though, and difficult to read. Merlin instead tuned in with magic. The power he sensed within Tom was heightened and bursting, and it gave him away before he spoke.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment. Waiting for a teacher.”

"Well, tell me what you know about magic." He gave Tom the floor whilst the excitement was still high and the boy was feeling chatty.

“That’s what it is then–magic? My mother had it, but my father…” Tom scowled at the floor, losing interest in the question. Merlin pressed a little further.

"He didn't? Is that what’s upset you?” 

Tom seemed wildly offended by the accusation of being upset by something. He bit back with his hackles raised.

“He was a low-life–a muggle. Ungrateful scumbag just like the rest of them! The reason my mother’s dead and I’m stuck in this place.”

"Hey," Merlin stopped him sternly, instinctively reaching out to lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Enough of that.” Tom squirmed for a moment under another's touch before resorting to glaring at the floor uncomfortably. Merlin took his hand away, sighing. Tom was vile, but he was so young . People were only products of their circumstances, and whilst he was deeply unsettled by the boy in front of him, it did little to deter him from the possibility that he could be changed.

“Is that why you don’t like it here? Why you won’t hang out with the other children?”

“I’ve got no time for them. I’m sick to death of their snivelling and their ignorance.” His hatred was strangely intense–like there was more to it than the frustrations of living with a score of extra siblings.

“Why do you blame them?”

“Quit it with the questions. All muggles are the same, surely you should understand that.” He folded his arms. Evidently this conversation was not going the way Tom had hoped.

“Well, it’s easy to believe that, especially when we are hurt,” Merlin led with a little olive branch of understanding, “but it’s not true. Have you ever given them a chance?”

“Are you insane?” Tom practically spat, but not before Merlin saw a flicker behind his pale eyes. In some way the words had gotten to him. It was no good though, because the boy thought his only option was to double down. “You reveal yourself to me–what–to try to manipulate me? And you turn out to be a muggle-lover? Whose side are you on? I should find myself another teacher, one who isn’t a weak-minded boot-licker!” 

Tom was practically frothing at the mouth when he finished his tirade. He had somehow self-radicalised beyond the point of reason, and now he was a reactionary land-mine, just waiting to detonate.

Merlin was calm and deliberate. “It is you who is weak-minded, Tom. I know exactly where I stand. I haven’t said anything about teaching you, yet.”  

The reaction of Tom’s magic told him the words had just about blown the boy’s lid off. It made Merlin wonder if he’d ever been spoken to like this before. His neat hair was starting to take on static, but he otherwise managed to conceal his outrage.

“Please,” his tone dropped suddenly into something far silkier, like laying on the charm was a practiced skill, “I don’t belong here. I need to learn to control this… thing inside me, but everyone here just hates me for it. I’ve got nowhere to go–I fear they’ll turn me out as soon as I open up, or stand up for myself.” 

Tom did not know that Merlin and his guilt were very old friends, and he would not be swayed by puppy-eyes so easily anymore. But it didn’t matter how Tom acted, his mind was already made up. The boy needed to leave Wool’s. Just as Merlin had been at odds with his own village, so Tom was with the children here. He needed to find a good purpose for his obvious talents, before he started using them against people. Merlin could try to be the Gaius that Tom so desperately needed. 

“Well, thank you for the information. But you don’t have to lie to me,” Merlin replied, not letting on any of this. The boy acted like a little prince, and Merlin had always had a weakness for knocking that sort down a peg. He reached for the door handle, thinking more about his conversation with Martha than of filtering his tongue. “Do you really fear rejection from the other children here,” he challenged, “or do you just fear it from me ?”

Merlin opened the door manually this time, shutting it quietly behind him and pacing quickly back down the hall. 

As soon as he left, the tension lifted; muffled laughter rang in his ears, excitement suffocated the air. He strolled back into the common room with a smile and was met with a little cheer that made his cheeks flush. He beamed as he took in the children of Wool’s happily munching on the confectionery he had brought and Martha doing her rounds, picking up wrappers and telling everyone that they had to clean their teeth especially well tonight.

When she spotted Merlin, she made her way over, a curious crease in her brow. "That was more than five minutes, Mortimer. I heard a loud noise, what happened up there?" She eyed him sternly and Merlin knew she wanted answers–she rarely used the first name he had chosen unless she was especially serious. Even less in front of the children.

"I've come to an important decision regarding Tom's welfare," Merlin replied, "if it’s okay, I would like to discuss it as soon as possible."

"You can stay over this evening, we can talk after dinner," she replied, "if the children even want to eat after what you've brought." She phrased it like a telling-off but Merlin chuckled and she also adopted a small smile.

"I'll entertain them for a while, you should cancel dinner and put your feet up." Merlin smiled as Martha raised her eyebrows and took the pile of wrappers she was holding out to the kitchen, leaving him to it.

She had barely disappeared from sight and the children were already crowded around him, the older ones asking him to do one of his tricks and the younger ones whom he’d not met asking if he really was a magician. Merlin chuckled and obliged, picking up a plain wrapper from the side table and crumpling it in his palm, he threw it up in the air, there was a little flash of gold, and he caught the balled up wrapper firmly in his hand.

He crouched down, letting the children gather around him in anticipation as he opened his outstretched hand to reveal not only a perfectly intact wrapper, but a boiled sweet still inside.

It was a simple trick really, less down to magic and more down to sleight of hand in swapping the old wrapper for a sweet of the same variety but the children couldn't get enough of it. He ended up doing the replenishing trick with just about every child in the room before Martha came back in, saying that they would be having a light dinner, and that each of them had to eat a vegetable before they could leave the table.

As the children filed out, Martha turned to Merlin with a furrowed brow.

"The staff said they'll handle this evening for me, come, let's take a seat in the office."

Merlin followed Martha back through the hall, into a small room adjacent to the front door. It was dimly lit, with dark-green coloured walls and a high skirting board. A single desk stood against one wall and a set of drawn curtains stood behind a small table and a pair of chairs. Filing cabinets, some overflowing, were stacked beside the door. Merlin quickly took a seat, eager to start.

"So, what did you make of him?" Martha asked, eyes indicating the floor above where Tom’s bedroom was.

"He can't stay here Martha. He just can't."

"So you're suggesting..."

"Yes. And as soon as possible."

"We've tried. No families will take him," Martha sighed, like she’d heard this plenty of times. 

"That's why… I shall be taking him in."

Martha stilled in her seat. She had never heard this before. "Mortimer... I urge you to think a little more on this. It's not–"

"I have rarely been so sure of something, not in my whole life," Merlin said, reaching across the desk to lay his hand atop Martha's in earnest, "but I do have a few questions."

"I don't know what you've seen in him," Martha said quietly, almost to herself, but nodded.

"How old is he?"

“Eleven. Twelve this winter.”

“Did he know his parents?”

Martha sucked in a breath. “No.”

“Interesting… What do you know about them? Tom seems to have some strong opinions, but I want the facts.”

"Well, his father–of the same name–was rumoured to have left his mother when she was with Tom. She died hours after he was born, some say from the birth itself, others say she just... gave up."

"She came here? To the orphanage?"

"Yes, that's where she gave birth. A few months after your last visit. She had just enough time to name the boy before she died," Martha recalled solemnly.

"What was her name, his mother?" Merlin asked, hopeful.

"Merope, I believe." Martha answered, taking a moment to process her memory. Merlin imagined she didn't often bring such a subject to mind.

"Surname? Her maiden name?"

"I couldn't say. There were few questions asked that night. If it is of any use, he was also named after his grandfather, Marvolo. But his mother didn’t give us anyone to contact, and nobody came for him after she died." 

Merlin sat back in his chair a moment, silence filling the room. He racked his brains. Merope and Marvolo... Marvolo and Merope... he tested the names on his tongue and they rolled off so easily he knew they should mean something to him. He cursed himself for travelling these past twelve years, his knowledge of Britain’s wizarding houses had been sieved from his memory. He would have to go to the books.

"Does anything... unusual happen around Tom? Perhaps when he is angry, or sad?" Merlin said, moving on from the question of family.

"It's funny you should ask that," Martha said, a small smile playing on her lips that held no mirth, "the things are a little more... sinister than your party tricks."

"I'm sure," Merlin said in a low voice, "can you describe any?"

"He liked to scare the children, you know, in the earlier days. I'm sure he still has a whole collection of his trophies in that wardrobe. But for the last year, after the incident at the beach, he's been incredibly isolated."

"Trophies?"

"The children's toys. He’d steal them. You barely see him any more though. Meals are sent up to his room after one of the staff got a nasty burn at dinner. Mentioned Tom’s mother, tried to cheer him up. Scalding hot water went everywhere."

"That explains a lot. He was a danger to the children... but isolation has made him a danger to himself." Merlin said bitterly, thinking of how turbulent the boy’s magic had felt, how possessed he was by strange and extreme ideas. "You just can't win sometimes."

"No," Martha said quietly, deadly serious, "but I can't jeopardise the safety of the others. Tom is a lost cause. A devilish boy. I often dread to think what he's doing up there, but no one dares to find out." She struggled to meet Merlin's eyes as she spoke, betraying her guilt. To an extent, Merlin agreed: Tom seemed capable of awful things. It was perplexing what had attached him to such a vile boy so quickly, maybe it was only that, unlike Martha, he could not accept Tom as a lost cause.

"You mentioned another incident–at the beach."

Martha nodded. "Last year. We took the children on a harmless outing. Tom took two into a cave, no doubt manipulated them into some adventure. They were never the same afterwards. Won't talk about what happened there to this day."

"And you say Tom isolated himself from then on?"

"Yes, drawing into himself, very thoughtful all of a sudden. He was nonetheless cruel, but he came back from that trip and seemed to put himself above it all. It wasn't that he changed or anything, he just seems to think that tormenting the other children is no longer worth his time. Something in that cave... it made him think."

"He's certainly got a narrow view of the world," Merlin agreed, processing the new information. "Whatever it is, Tom has got far bigger things on his mind now than stealing toys. He’s working hard at something in that room... looks like he doesn’t sleep much."

Martha raised her eyebrows. "He let you in?"

"You give him a reason to want to talk... and he will. You already know he plays games with people. I just had to play them back," Merlin explained. It was almost entirely truthful.

Martha smiled to herself. "I've no idea why I let you try to talk to him in the first place. Perhaps you just have a way with these things."

"It was very strange. I was drawn to him somehow." Merlin commented, his gaze drifting for a second. He rolled his shoulders and took off his thick grey duffle coat, hanging it on the back of his chair. "So, how are we going to go about this?"

"You still want to adopt him? Surely with your lifestyle–"

"I appreciate your efforts, Martha, but you can’t talk me out of it. I have my reasons. I’ll make sure I am here for the rest of his schooling–twenty years or so is not so long to stick around." Merlin noted the familiar curiosity returning to Martha's expression when he mentioned the passing years. His experience of time was not the same as hers, and she seemed to have cottoned on that Merlin was older than he appeared.

"You will tutor Tom? He is incredibly apt, there is little the teacher here can do for him."

"I have something in mind." 

"I still don't think this is wise, Mr Thomas. What with all the... incidents around Tom, not to mention his very nature. We have tried to get him assessed by a professional, but circumstances always arise... people suspect it may be Tom’s doing keeping them away." Martha actually looked worried.

"Martha, you have to trust me. Tom has been written off here. I can see it in your eyes now, and in the children's before. You think he is too far gone." Merlin leant forward again over the table, a simmering of emotion in his voice as he brought to the surface the memory of a woman from long ago.

"I knew someone once. Too many people failed her, too many times. Very few noticed her descent into darkness and no one attempted to pull her out. I think I was the only one who could have saved her, but I didn't. I didn't dare try, because I was too scared of the consequences that would befall myself. So when she began to hurt people, I felt that was on me.” Merlin blinked back water from his eyes.

Guilt was an ever present ghost. It followed the weary sorcerer like a shadow, banished only partially by the day's distractions and returning to consume his dreams. He could not let Tom fall. In this complicated child, he admitted to himself that he saw not only a chance for the boy’s salvation, but his own.

Would the challenge be dangerous? Certainly. But it had to be done.

"Oh, God above, Mortimer," Martha conceded, leaning back in her chair. "This is going to be a lot of paperwork."

Chapter Text

20th April, 1938...

Merlin had expected to return to Wool's as soon as he could. After all, he owed it to Martha and the children there after twelve years travelling on the mainland. He hadn't, however, expected to be back within a month.

He also hadn't been expecting to adopt a certain boy named Tom Riddle, but that was a whole other worry. Martha had been right about the paperwork, and if she had found it pressing that was nothing on Merlin. His backstory was foolproof for everyday life, but there had been no end to the legal tweaks, checks and records he'd needed to make to Mr Mortimer A. Thomas to make him viable for parenthood.

After all the long hours they'd spent together on the process, Martha had realised that Merlin's mind would not be swayed on the matter. Perhaps more slowly she had come to be on the same page. She had said to him in their last meeting before today, as Merlin shook out his hand cramp in between signing all the final documents, that maybe it really was for the best. That Tom might benefit from Merlin's care, rather than destroy the flicker of hope Merlin still held for the boy within the first week, as the stern lady had previously thought.

Secretly, though, Merlin suspected that Martha had been on board with the process much longer. She had certainly gone out of her way to make the daunting task of adoption easier for Merlin, and she had often commented how strange it was that Tom himself had taken the news so well.

"You've put a genuine spell on the lad." She had said, a spark of interest playing subtly on her features, "I don't understand how you break down those walls of his, but you've got to him somehow. It's a dangerous game."

"I know, but maybe I'm the only one who can play it," Merlin had replied earnestly. He had a unique ability to read the lad by sensing his magic, and, more importantly, he had something Tom wanted. He hoped it was more than just Tom's desire to learn magic that drew them together, but it was likely the Riddle just wanted to use Merlin for his own ends.

He tried to get a grip on the worm of anxiety that flared up once again as he thought of the task before him. He checked his pockets a third time: train fare, keys, chocolate... he ran through his crumpled muggle underground map once more before stowing it at last in his pocket. There was no use fretting anymore. As confidently as he could muster, Merlin rang the orphanage bell. Martha answered quickly this time and in a bit of a blur Merlin passed through the main hall with her and onto the landing, butterflies flitting restlessly about his abdomen.

And then there he was, pristine and cool as always, not a hair out of place.

"Oh, Tom, I see you're already packed," Martha said, spotting the boy as he exited his blank little box room for the last time. Despite the revelations Martha may have had about Tom, Merlin noticed a fearfulness in her tone even as she spoke to him now. Tom noticed it too. Merlin swallowed as he watched the pale boy smile sweetly at Martha, concealing a hint of glee in his charming features.

Merlin's throat went dry at the reality of having Tom in front of him again. The boy loved to be feared, so Merlin knew he would have to keep his own nerves buried. Seeing him up close again renewed the importance of his task. He wanted to help not just Tom, but all the others he might harm if he didn't change.

"Tom, so good to see you again!" Merlin greeted, a jolly bounce in his step as he snapped into action and went over to shake Tom's hand. Tom took it purposely with a firm, but casual shake.

Here was a boy who could pull out the charm when he needed to, Merlin thought, remembering the usefulness of court etiquette in his youth. Noble visitors tended to forgive the clumsy servant when he demonstrated he knew his place. Tom had the added advantage that he was not clumsy at all, and he was enjoying this little performance in front of Martha.

After a polite hello, Merlin asked if Tom had been well, and told him briefly of their travel arrangements as they made their way downstairs. Tom held his plain, dusty leather suitcase firmly in one arm as he walked, crisp brown jacket angling his shoulders with perfect posture. He responded to Merlin's small talk in short, trained responses, betraying to Merlin that his mind was elsewhere. They stopped in the hallway and Martha said something along the lines of "popping to get Tom's lunch from the kitchen" before she disappeared from the hall.

Now alone, Merlin turned to Tom, keeling down in front of him so his lanky form could meet the boy at eye level.

"Now," he said, "we've got quite a lot to do today, but I promise we will have a sit down and talk various things over." Merlin let a pause follow to make sure Tom understood what he was leaving unsaid. The boy nodded eagerly and Merlin continued: "I think it would be a good idea for you to say goodbye to the other children now."

Tom scoffed as soon as the words left Merlin's mouth.

"They'll be grateful I'm gone, trust me."

"Tom..." Merlin said in a low voice, "like it or not, you have grown up with these children. In the very least you owe them a goodbye."

Tom shook his head. "You can't expect me to give my best wishes to that lot. I'll forget about them all soon enough, anyway."

Merlin reached forward and gripped Tom's shoulder sternly.

"You will do as I tell you," he said in a quiet voice, with a hint of threat he didn't know he possessed. "You will say goodbye to those children. They have done you no harm and you'll see that someday."

Tom seemed to stiffen at Merlin's delivery and he nodded, dropping his suitcase and trudging silently over to the common room, slipping inside. Merlin was left alone on his knees in the hallway, remembering his last words to the witch, Morgana. If nothing else, at least he had said goodbye.

He sighed, releasing the pressure that had built up between his eyes. It meant a lot that Tom said goodbye now. He felt it would be wrong for him to leave without a word. Tom apparently hated it at Wool's, but Merlin was tearing him away from all he'd ever known. That kind of a change had to be acknowledged properly.

Additionally, he'd established some discipline. He had to start as he meant to go on, and Tom needed to know that he was expected to do as he was told.

As he rose stiffly from the floorboards, Martha came out of the dinning room door on the right side of the hall with a paper bag in hand. She frowned when she saw Merlin alone in the hall.

"Where is he?" She asked, placing the sandwich bag on top of Tom's suitcase.

"Saying goodbye to the children." Merlin replied.

Martha spluttered. "He's... what?"

Merlin shrugged and smiled. "What can I say, I've just got that effect on him." He echoed Martha's own remarks, but reflected that it was interesting how Tom had conceded to his request with little resistance. He was sure that not everything would be so easy.

Martha playfully slapped his arm in response. "I keep saying that because it's true. I didn't believe it at first, but I think you may be able to save that boy."

"I hope so." Merlin said, tone snuffing out the light mood of their conversation. The weight of his task weighed heavy on his mind and he grimaced at the floor, biting the inside of his lip.

"If you ever need me," Martha mumured, putting an arm around the dejected looking man.

"Thanks, Martha. For everything."

"You too."

There was a dim silence in which Merlin adjusted his coat collar and picked up Tom's case, making his way over to the vestibule. Tom returned soon after from the common room, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Bye," the boy said quietly, taking his sandwich bag and nodding to Martha. He wandered over to Merlin and together the two of them pulled open the old Victorian door and stepped out into the grey London morning.

Martha found a bag of chocolates on her desk later that day. Smiling to herself, she stowed the accompanying note into the breast-pocket of her dress. It all made sense to her now.

When they rounded the corner of the street, Merlin could tell Tom wasn't impressed. He saw the tiny slither of excitement fade from the boy's features as soon as he realised that Merlin's house was ordinary.

Pennethorne Road was neither too close nor too far from central London. South of the Thames, its yellow-brick Victorian houses formed a neat and quiet street. Merlin was grateful to own the house here, as it was always a comfortingly ordinary and unchanged neighbourhood to return to after a trying day... or a trying twelve years.

He'd rented it out while he was away, but enchantments within the house kept all of his own belongings in order for when he returned. He'd set up a room for Tom the night before, and he hoped that it would at least be something to lift the boy from his mood.

It was mainly Merlin's fault, really. They'd caught the train from the orphanage to the nearby station with marginal success. Tom had first become impatient as Merlin studied the maps for more than ten minutes, unused to ordinary public transport. The young Riddle's temper had then descended into exasperation as Merlin had flustered about purchasing, and then promptly misplacing the tickets. When they'd finally boarded the train, Merlin had felt Tom's magic boiling beneath the surface. If he wanted to avoid accidental magic outbursts, he was going to need to get better at this. Clumsiness he couldn't really account for, but he assured himself that the inevitable journeys to Kings Cross and Diagon Alley would be smoother.

"Not what I expected from a man with a fortune, sir." Tom said, lifting his nose up at the house they had stopped by on the corner. He added "sir" begrudgingly, remembering his manners.

"My personal cost of living has never been high," Merlin replied calculatingly, "because this house has everything I need, the rest can be put to more worthwhile causes."

Tom scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head at the ground. Merlin pursed his lips, taking his keys out of his pocket and making his way through the front garden. This side of Tom was going to be like prying the prince out of Prince Arthur.

"I'll show you around first," Merlin said as the lock on the door clicked and he stepped inside the hallway, flicking a switch to illuminate the entrance way, "then we'll sit down and have a chat." He squinted into the din of the rest of the house. "I need to look at re-doing this place. It really is lacking proper lighting. Well, I s'pose opening the curtains would be a start–" Merlin stopped when he saw that Tom had frozen in the doorway and was evidently no longer listening.

Of course, the house may have looked ordinary on the outside, but within it was a different story. So preoccupied about setting off on the right foot, Merlin had forgotten to prepare Tom for his first glimpse of a magical household.

"Did you put those people in there?" Tom asked with an unnerving innocence, pointing to a painting that was on the wall opposite the coat hooks. As usual, it was moving.

"Goddess, no. They're not real. It's just a fond view of mine." Merlin replied, taking a moment to watch the moving scene. Bright blue ocean washed against the tumbled rocks on a cliff-side. A clump of pink thrift rippled in the foreground so vividly that Merlin could almost hear the blossoms rustle together in the wind. A couple of figures strolled calmly by (he liked to imagine, by their varied heights, a father and his son) as though they hadn't a care in the world.

He blinked from his musings. It was hard to tear himself away sometimes. The painting had nothing to do with Camelot–perhaps why he liked it so much–but it had always brought out a yearning that he couldn't place.

He plopped his keys down on a shelf by the door.

"Are they normal keys, or magic keys?" Tom asked. The small moment of discovery had passed and the boy had risen back above everything. Merlin had to admire it, just a little.

"Just keys," he said. "Not everything is magic, but there are some additional wards around the house."

"How do they work?" The boy asked. His eyes were curious, but perfectly calm. Merlin wouldn't let the boy play him for a fool.

"No need to get into all that just yet." He wasn't about to share information on his house security that easily. Tom nodded submissively, as you would to a gentleman or professional. Martha had mentioned his impeccable manners and the way he could use them to sway situations to his advantage, and Merlin suspected he was just scratching the top of the iceberg. But he himself couldn't deny having played the same card on several lords and royals in his time to get what he needed.

"We'll take your bag to your room first, eh?" Merlin said, breaking the silence that had slunk between them. Deciding that he needed to get used to it as much as Tom did, Merlin reached inside his coat to pull out a thin, stuffed wooden rod. Unicorn hair, flexible and thirteen inches... apparently. It didn't really matter, as Merlin just pretended to use the thing.

He pointed it at the small brown suitcase at Tom's feet, causing it to rise smoothly from the ground, a metre or so at first, but after Merlin flicked a second light switch, illuminating the narrow set of stairs against the wall, it shot up out of sight.

Tom strode quickly up the stairs after it with an unreadable expression on his face. Merlin followed Tom and the case more slowly, turning the landing lights on with a snap of his fingers. He found Tom in the centre of his new room, formerly home to a host of Merlin's crud that he had cleared away with the difficulty of a chronic hoarder. He wasn't so much materialistic, but sentimental, and it just so happened that you collected a lot of things worth keeping when you lived for over a thousand years.

"I gathered you didn't want anything flashy," Merlin said as he came up behind Tom, "but I hope this is okay."

Tom didn't reply at first, choosing to take a little walk around the perimeter of the room, letting each detail sink in. He scrutinised each of the moving paintings, lifted up the corners of the plain striped duvet cover and ran his fingers across the block coloured, dusty green walls. But inevitably he couldn't keep his eyes from the ceiling long. Despite the blankness of Tom's room at the orphanage, Merlin couldn't stand to replicate such a lifeless space. It just wasn't his nature.

The ceiling had a somewhat three-dimensional appearance to it, much like he had seen from his brief visits to Hogwarts in the past. It was as though someone had taken a slice out of a clear night sky. He was quite pleased with it, really. Mesmerising blinks of light were endlessly dotted through a deep coloured sky that melted from hue to hue. Purples, pinks, greens, blues... not so much that it was blinding, but just enough to bring a simplistic beauty to the suspended constellations.

"It's quite a feat, Mr Thomas," Tom said at last. "I've always been fascinated by the stars... that distant power we can't understand, existing entirely separate from our own ideas of time."

Merlin was stumped by the eloquence as well as the irony of his answer. He himself had tried so hard to move with the pace of modern society, but despite everything he'd always felt at a distance. A year was just a tragic heartbeat in his lifetime. He lingered on, as always. Waiting for a destiny he wasn't even sure he believed in anymore.

Now, Merlin was determined to do something meaningful with the unimaginable amount of time that had been thrust upon him.

"Magic is a wonder and a beauty in its truest form, I think." Merlin replied. Tom seemed to think on this deeply.

"I can barely wait to master it. To understand something like that so completely would surely give a man power beyond the stars." Merlin's smile dropped from his face. "But it is beautiful, thank you."

The smile returned. That was it, he'd seen it at last. The real Tom had broken through without a snide or twisted comment on his tongue. That was all Merlin needed.

"Come," he said, "I'll show you 'round and you can unpack after dinner."

Tom followed him quietly on a tour of the house: the bathroom; the old laundry room that Merlin had turned into a cramped book store; the din living room with a couple squashy armchairs; the round dining table beside a large oak cabinet with all manner of odds and ends stored behind its glass cupboards and finally the kitchen. Merlin swept over to where the kettle was sitting on the stove, opposite the little island where two stools were kept. Then, taking his wand again, he brought two cups from one of the overhead cupboards on the back wall.

"Tea?" He said merrily. Tom nodded quietly, eyes fixed on a door that joined the kitchen and the hall to the back of the house.

"What's in that room?" He asked, stopping Merlin cautiously in his tracks as he lit the stove under the kettle with a flick of his wrist. He regained his composure as fast as he could but he knew Tom had seen him falter.

"That's my study. It's a bit cramped with everything from my travels and all the things that were in your room, so I'm going to say it's out of bounds– if that's okay."

Tom considered this a moment as Merlin handed him a steaming cup of Earl Grey. "Alright." He said, but Merlin heard the silent thought that followed: for now.

Not likely, Merlin thought. That room had the strongest wards in the house, such that the founders combined would struggle to break them. If Tom got in there, for one thing it would be a complete shock and for another, Tom would discover exactly who Merlin really was. Neither appealed to him.

By the time he had sat himself down beside Tom on one of the stools, Merlin had a host of questions lined up to tactfully get through. Before he could say anything, however, Tom asked a rather blunt one of his own.

"So, when are you going to teach me magic?"

"Oh, I won't be teaching you magic."

Tom's eyes bulged, and he spat liquid back into his cup, slamming it down on the worktop. "Then what use are you?"

Merlin quirked a brow, and the boy shrank beneath it, regretting the slip in his tightly regulated emotions. With it, he had given the old warlock several answers. Firstly, that his good faith and politeness had only been due to what he thought Merlin could give him. Secondly (and far more interesting), his knowledge of the wizarding world was patchy; he clearly had no idea about Hogwarts.

"Tell me how you came to know about magic." Merlin said.

Tom's answer was a practised recital.

"I've known I was different as far back as I can remember. I've always been able to do these… things, but I wanted to know more. Last summer I decided to start my research. I found accounts of the things I can do happening elsewhere. Of course, no one else believed the witnesses–they didn't know what I knew. I figured I must be part of a rare community. Your introduction was just the proof I needed."

It was incredible, at such a young age, to have pieced such a thing together. Too incredible, perhaps. Tom's story tied in with the facts Merlin already knew: his isolation, research, and vague knowledge of his own powers. But not all the answers were there, and not everything added up. He still didn't understand what had motivated the young Riddle to delve into his history, but he knew it must've had something to do with the cave incident Martha had described.

"You told me your mother had magic. What do you know about that?" Merlin delicately pressed him further. He was on thin ice posing a question like that to an orphan, but Tom would be foolish to think Merlin wouldn't ask, and he wanted to hear the boy's prepared response.

"I know my mother was from an old and powerful family. It makes sense that my gift would come from there." Tom's assumption was, painfully, correct. The ancient wizarding families had kept such a long seat in power because of their magic and influence, corrupt and unfair as that was.

"Your mother's name was Merope Gaunt, is that correct?" The boy beside him grew very still, but Merlin felt magic strike the air. Tom obviously did not like the idea that Merlin had gone away and done this research, but his eyes were wide and alert. Merlin's usefulness to him was now restored. He nodded, wanting to hear more.

"You're right that Gaunt is an old wizarding house," Merlin obliged, "but they are elusive, and their secrets well protected. It's impressive–and curious–that you managed to find that name at all."

Merlin had kicked himself for not remembering the name of Gaunt when Martha had first told him about Tom's family. The pureblood families were very good at burying their dirt, and the Gaunts had much of it. It was difficult to find written accounts anymore, but Merlin's jogged memory served him well. They were the descendant house of Salazar Slytherin: a pure-blooded, bigoted family who had squandered their wealth of old, and now clung only to a weak impression of their noble heritage.

There were no easy ways to talk to modern wizards about Salazar Slytherin, and yet, their society was often fundamentally arranged by what people thought of him. If it wasn't pressure enough already, a confrontation with this polarising heritage was no doubt already written in Tom's future. He was an heir unfortunately not to wealth, but trouble.

But Merlin saw he couldn't press the boy further today. Tom twitched, and then disappeared behind a poker-faced stare at the tiniest accusation that his story wasn't true. Merlin had tiptoed up to the line, and instead of crossing it, he decided to back down.

For now, he didn't want to risk confrontation. He wanted Tom to settle in and get comfortable with his new life, so the work could begin. If he pressed the boy too much now, it might harden his heart forever.

"Well, that's enough questions from me." He sat back in an open gesture. "I think a bit of a wider introduction is due."

Thinking about it, Merlin disagreed with a lot of the modern wizarding culture. Many wizards thought it was natural to place themselves above muggles in society. It was dehumanising; constantly modifying their memories and often treating them like animals. Merlin disliked the Statute of Secrecy also, but he understood that if the wizarding community was to return to modern day life, it was very probable that neither side would be able to cope. Merlin thought miserably about the advantage people like Tom might try to take on muggles if the Statute fell. Perhaps one day they'd be ready… but not yet.

This aside, Merlin did his best to fill Tom in on the basics of wizarding society, and though the boy put on a good attempt at hiding it, Merlin could tell it was all new to him. He absorbed the information with that same unnerving hunger that Merlin was not familiar with. The desire to conquer all that he learned and surveyed was an integral part of how Tom ticked. Merlin did his best to tame this, by relating each of the wizarding features he described to a muggle appliance (the owl system was much like the ordinary postal service, for example). He hoped, if he religiously instilled the similarities between non-magical folk and wizards to Tom, the boy would somehow not adopt the extreme views of the Gaunts, or albeit many of the Slytherins.

"How big is this underground community?" Tom asked a little while into Merlin's tale.

"A fraction of the British population. A few thousand here, but there are many more across the world, with their own governments, laws, transport and schools."

"Schools?"

"Hogwarts is the name of the wizarding school in Britain. You'll learn magic there, starting in September."

Tom parted his lips, nodding gently. He was no doubt picturing it in his mind, and he was lost in this internal fantasy for a long moment. Then he frowned at Merlin.

"If you aren't teaching me magic, why did you want to adopt me?"

Merlin chewed the inside of his mouth, then took a sip of his tea to buy time as he carefully chose his words.

"You know, I never thought I'd raise a child. But it's not often a wizard crops up in your situation, and I got the distinct feeling that Wool's wasn't the best place for you." He tried to tread the line between Tom's opinion that he was superior to the other kids at the orphanage, and the truth that he was a danger to himself and others whilst he remained there. "It must be a bit of fate that you stumbled into my orphanage. You seemed so isolated. A bit of solitude can be a great relief, but we all need company–myself included–else we'll go insane. I think I can help you."

"I've always been alone. I prefer it that way."

"It's not been good for you. Your magic is incredibly volatile. It's unsocialised, so it reacts to pretty much all outside factors. It thinks everything is a threat. You may have noticed it knotting in your stomach all day." Merlin hoped that Tom would be more receptive once he brought magic back into the equation. Predictably, his expression lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Of course. That makes sense." Something dawned on him. "Wait… you could sense that?" Tom did not like the idea that Merlin was able to read him.

"Yeah. It's quite erratic, but I can help you with that."

"But if I'm learning magic at Hogwarts, what is there for you to teach me?"

Merlin grinned. "Oh, everything."

Chapter Text

16th June, 1938...

April had blurred into May and then become June far quicker than Merlin had expected. Tom, who had remained stony and guarded for the most part, was settled into life on Pennethorne road at last. He was quiet most days, and suspicious of everything. He spoke only when he needed to and accompanied Merlin with some reluctance on their various outings.

Merlin had tried to slip in little life lessons whenever he could. Tom came to the market with him every week and they had also visited other attractions of muggle London. When Merlin had first begun to implement these trips, Tom had been visibly uncomfortable with having to interact with ordinary folk. Now he had knowledge that the wizarding world was truly out there, Merlin suspected that Tom despised how he had not yet been introduced to any of it. He was being forced to lead a normal life when a whole wealth of power lay dormant at his fingertips.

But it had been important to Merlin that they wait. He needed time to prepare himself, and he also wanted Tom to appreciate ordinary life before he would likely abandon it forever.

Tom had made little real progress when it came to interacting with muggles (or other people in general), but he seemed to put up with them well enough. Merlin had expected the going to be slow, so he wasn't alarmed by this. He hadn't, however, realised what a problem the prospect of the magical world and Hogwarts would become.

The school had sat on a distant horizon, but now it was closing in rapidly. Merlin was having to reconcile with the fact that he would soon have to let Tom go. They had but a few months together before the old warlock would be forced to send Tom where he would no longer be under his supervision. It was putting him at odds with the boy, because he could tell how badly Tom was looking forward to it. Whilst Merlin had no doubt he would make an excellent student–he was academic and naturally gifted–he was scared by what might become of Tom. Would all the progress Merlin hoped to make be lost at Hogwarts? Would Tom turn as cruel as he’d been at Wool’s? Or was there a chance that the orphan boy wouldn’t find his footing, and brood into something even worse?

Often Merlin felt hopeless. He consoled himself that in the first term there was surely little harm that could be done, but he barely believed it. He knew full well that underestimating someone was never wise. If he had ever assumed Tom would be fine on his own, he wouldn't have adopted the boy.

He knew, however, that Tom needed Hogwarts. He needed social exposure, and a chance to be independent, if he was ever going to break out of the shell that Wool’s had molded him into. He needed to learn to use magic among other witches and wizards. If Tom was ever going to change, it needed to be by his own choice, and not because he was under Merlin’s constant surveillance.

But these rational positives about Hogwarts could not overpower the gnawing feeling of attachment that had formed within Merlin. It sounded insane, but he liked having Tom around; he was witty and quick and exceptionally clever. Merlin liked having someone to spar with, and he thought Tom felt the same. Not to mention there was still that part of him that reminded Merlin of his younger self. Or, what his younger self could have become. They had a unique connection.

Or perhaps it was just that the house wasn’t empty. It felt special: not being alone.

Naturally, his affections and sympathy grew. Tom was an important project that happened to also be a lost, bright young boy whom no one had ever given the chance to be better. 

Spawned from an unsettling heritage, he was a victim of circumstance who needed someone to teach him what it was to be human. A cruel and harsh world bred cruel and harsh people, and though Merlin couldn't ever hope to break such a cycle on his own... he would try all he could. He was older, wiser and hardened to the realities of his life. He would not repeat his mistakes of the past so easily. Morgana had arguably been the greatest of his devastating list of failures. A victim of the wrong people and a lack of guidance, just like Tom.

He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to ignore the past, and allow his sole focus to be on Tom's well-being; he was haunted by the early days of Morgana’s treachery and how he’d watched her face the terror of her emerging powers alone, too scared to offer help. 

As a result of Merlin’s anxieties, they’d begun to work on Tom’s control over his magic. It was strange how quickly the child could shift from brooding to animated and determined when magic was brought up. He had applied himself well to the simple tasks Merlin had set him, concentrating on harnessing his magical core safely through breathing exercises and improving his control and tolerance. There was not much more they could do without a wand or breaking underage wizard laws, but this was the one area where they had made the most progress, as Tom so readily and genuinely applied himself to it. The allure of feeling his own power and one day being able to use it was too much not to get stuck in.

The rest of the time his mood was incredibly difficult to break, but Merlin was beginning to manage it. He’d realised that in order for any of his lessons to stick, he had to first break down Tom’s heavily masked exterior. He tried to slip in the notions of kindness and tolerance wherever they went, and Tom remained thoughtful of these things, but Merlin could not truly reach him yet. 

It was very possible the boy ignored everything he said. He hoped that by sheer force of repetition, at least something was sinking in. 

It was clear that Tom was grateful to be in a quieter environment than Wool’s. Though he was moody and guarded, he had relaxed immeasurably since moving to Pennethorne road. Life at the orphanage was a pressurised environment. It was enlightening to see the extent to which his cruelty and outbursts of violence subsided in a calmer space.

But Merlin was not without his misgivings. 

Perhaps he was too cynical, but he often thought Tom was too polite. He certainly wasn’t an angel, but neither was he the shockingly vile boy that Merlin had met at the orphanage. This transformation concealed something, he was sure of it.

He had tried not to pry much further into Tom since they had spoken of his family, but he knew he would have to venture the topic again soon. Parts of Tom's story did not add up. Or rather, parts of his vocabulary didn't.

He had used the terms wizard and muggle in their first meeting at Wool’s without batting an eyelid. 

More importantly, he had used the phrases before even Merlin himself had used them, and yet later appeared totally new to the wizarding world. Wizard could certainly be allowed a lucky guess, but muggle ? Merlin had not noticed it in the moment–the word being so commonly used in modern wizarding society, but the suspicion had crept in soon after. 

He had racked his brains over many long evenings, but he could not think of a sensible reason as to why Tom would know these words, and yet the rest of the magical world be so new to him. It was possible that Tom knew a lot more than he was letting on, and Merlin had only just scratched the surface. 

There were no sensible sources where Tom could have picked up the word. The Statute of Secrecy had been firmly in place now for almost three hundred years. No wizarding books could have escaped the Ministry's surveillance, especially during tensions with Grindelwald. Sure, the "accounts" Tom had found of people like him could be plausible, but the more Merlin thought about it the more unlikely it seemed that Tom could stumble upon such stories of strange events and manage to piece the picture together. He was smart, yes, but intelligence was not coincidence. Scouring libraries for this sort of stuff could take years, since most muggles who had escaped wizarding encounters without memory modification were written off as mad, and records were seized by the Ministry. Any accounts from before the Statute would be seen as fiction, just like the legends of King Arthur.

It gave Merlin a headache. He had seen Tom's furious work, and knew that he was still working on it even now, tucked in one of his drawers in his new room. The boy was up to something and had apparently been for a year. Merlin had one lead on it. One still unexplored possibility. It seemed outlandish, but Martha had also believed that Tom's strange research had stemmed from there: the incident in the cave, and the two children who were never the same.

He sighed, sinking further into his seat at the kitchen table. He would have to ask Tom. Martha didn't know any more than she had told him and there was no way he would find answers through the poor children. He didn't want to jeopardise the relationship that he had built with Tom, but it couldn't go unsolved.

But for now, there was a more urgent development at hand. He glanced across the work surface to where a letter sat quietly, face down. Addressed to Tom in an elegant script on a crisp parchment envelope, it set Merlin's teeth on edge. It was here.

The front latch clicked from down the hall.

Merlin sucked in a breath.

"Where is it?"

The response was immediate, as soon as Tom laid eyes on Merlin he knew. They’d both been expecting it. The boy's growing anxiety and questions about the letter had not escaped Merlin's notice.

Merlin’s eyes flicked across the counter. For a moment, he thought about hiding it. Once Tom was at Hogwarts, there would be no way to check up on him, and the clingy, sentimental part of him that Kilgharrah had always criticised hated the idea. He would miss every rare smile that cracked his hardened features, and be unable to congratulate him whole-heartedly when he was able to calm the wildness of his magic. He thought about burning the letter, keeping the boy under his watch and homeschooling him–

Merlin breathed. He made an open gesture to the envelope. "It's here."

Tom raced down the hall to meet Merlin, casting his bag aside by the bannister as he did so. He snatched the letter across the work surface and only slowed down in his motions to meticulously prise open the wax seal. Merlin noticed as Tom slid out the contents that his hands were shaking.

"Come here, let's read it through," Merlin said, beckoning him to sit on the stool next to him. Tom did so, and as he unfolded the letter, Merlin took hold of one side to keep it steady as Tom took it in.

He looked relieved, which was understandable, as he’d fretted often over whether the letter was coming at all. But he had that sickening look in his eye that Merlin would never get used to. 

He turned to Merlin, his dark expression glassed over by a more wholesome combination of emotions, his mouth opening.

"Tuesday," Merlin answered the question on Tom's lips. "I'll take you Tuesday."

He'd been with Tom to the Leaky Cauldron on one occasion, but they'd never set foot in Diagon Alley itself. He knew Tom desperately wanted to go, but he had wanted to wait just a little longer–until he was comfortable to let the boy loose in the ordinary world–before he took him into the wizarding one on a firm leash. Speaking of which...

"How was the paper round?" Merlin asked, standing up from where Tom was still pouring over the letter intently.

He filled the kettle and absent-mindedly flicked the stove on with a twitch of his wrist. Remembering himself, he hastily pulled out his wand and pretended to use it to get two cups from the overhead cupboard, and the tub of cocoa powder. 

Thankfully, Tom was too engrossed to notice his wandless display. It took the boy a moment to realise he was being spoken to. He hummed in reply, muttering something about a tip from Mr Peters on the corner.

"Oh, well that's nice of him. Did you say thank you?"

"Obviously," Tom murmured absently, now running a delicate finger over the wax seal, committing it to memory.

"I've no doubt, you're infuriatingly polite sometimes. A bit of a charmer, some would say."

Tom smiled with mock sweetness, finally putting the letter down and turning to watch Merlin as he made the hot cocoa. "It pays to be nice to people."

"It certainly does, it certainly does," Merlin said, rummaging in the fridge for the cream. "It's incredibly rewarding, you know, being pleasant. You feel good about yourself."

"People will do things for you." Tom grabbed a couple spoons from the drawer. He was bored by the conversation.

"Yes, the odd favour is always nice, but sometimes I like to do something good for someone for nothing in return. It costs very little effort. For example, I made you cocoa. It's reward enough just to see you enjoy it." Merlin explained, putting far too much cream atop the steaming liquid than was medically acceptable, and passing it to Tom with a flourish. 

Tom gave a light chuckle, amused by Merlin in a way that was always half shaded by pity.

"I guess so," he said, but it was enough. There was a rare genuineness to the boy’s tone. Granted, he was just agreeing to get Merlin off his case, but the concession was still an act of charity, and a pleasant gesture. He had said it to make Merlin happy. Progress was progress, after all. 

The moment didn’t last long, they never did. The guard was back up as soon as Merlin had taken a sip of his own cocoa. When they had passed a couple of minutes in silence, Tom cleared his throat and turned to Merlin with an expression just short of batting his eyelashes. 

"Would you allow me,” he began with that devastating politeness, “to start some reading before school? Just to... get some basic theory and–"

"I'm sure I've got a few books in my study," Merlin said, cutting off the silky plea. Hadn’t he just made the point that he didn’t need to be buttered up to perform this small act of kindness? He didn’t let it show. 

“You shouldn't feel pressured to rush into it. I have no doubt you will be at the head of your classes. It might be worth having a few set-up reads, though." 

Tom nodded enthusiastically at the idea. Perhaps, Merlin thought, licking some stray cream from his nose, it would be worth giving Tom a few... how to phrase it... planted reads. Just a couple books of Merlin's personal choice to give him an idea of the magical world. Not ones that would ground his prejudice further, like reading about the unfortunate fall of Salazar Slytherin, but something from a time far before that. Where the seeds of the future of magic were truly sewn, where muggles and sorcerers had lived together in relative harmony, equal to each other.

Perhaps Camelot would be a good place to start.

"I'll find you something for this evening," he said. Tom's face lit up. "Now," he changed the subject, smacking his lips. "Let's take a look at that list they've sent you."

It was just passing five thirty when Merlin emerged from his study and called Tom down from upstairs. He paused, listening to the movement above and tapping his fingers rhythmically against the books in his arms. He hummed a tune he subconsciously realised was a rendition of one of the Camelot courts favourite banquet accompaniments. The echoes of a life he barely remembered what it felt like to live.

He made his way over to one of the three armchairs in the living room, Tom soon joining him in another, eyeing the books beadily across the coffee table. Merlin set them down in a neat stack. Tom immediately reached forward for them and Merlin allowed himself a small amount of satisfaction as the Riddle boy began to flip through the pages of the top book: a small, leather-bound volume, whose faded spine read: Camelot: The Establishment of Legend.

Sure, the book was dry in places; the author having a tendency to talk lengthily about the exact way the city was constructed. Everything from the stone used in the great walls to the craft of stained glass in the citadel courtyards, but eventually he got onto the social history and the bit Merlin was interested in. 

Merlin had picked this book simply because it annoyed him the least of his unfortunate collection of books on Camelot. Dry as it was, it was factual. The book actually talked relatively little of King Arthur and the ridiculous tales that had sprung up about him in the last millennium. Merlin liked it that way–for one thing it meant he could read about the city he had once loved without having to deal with the awful (and frankly stupid) misconceptions about what really happened, and the crushing guilt which came with every mention of his beloved King. For a second thing (and the reason he was giving the book to Tom) the author had focused on the social foundations of Camelot. How, long before the purge, a harmonious society of sorcerers and muggles lived equally, each with their own valuable part to play. Merlin felt this was much more significant than the gross misrepresentation of a singular moment in the city’s rich history.

Another book was a guide to the founding of the Ministry of Magic. An accurate and non-biased account, the sort of thing you would find in text-books, but Merlin knew Tom would lap up any knowledge of the wizarding world he could get. Plus, it would be useful for him to know how the ministry functioned.

Finally, Merlin had given Tom a book titled Hogwarts: Famous Alumnae . It did what it said on the tin, and there was little mention of the founders. 

He wasn't yet sure how he was going to go about the delicate matter of Salazar. Tom was, after all, his descendant. There was no knowing how he would react to such a heritage, or whether he knew already, and to be honest Merlin didn't really want to think about that. He had known Slytherin very briefly, and rather distantly, but he had known him enough to be aware that the man was deeply troubled and complex. His cruel tirade against muggleborns had not been noble, but Slytherin had clearly believed it to be. There were countless rumours about what Salazar had left behind and he polarised the wizarding community to this day. Tom saw things in black and white, like so many others, and that meant a figure as decidedly grey as Salazar was a risky topic.

"Why this book?" Tom asked, leafing through the Camelot one.

"Camelot was arguably the starting point for wizarding society as we know it. If you ignore all the ridiculous myths and legends, the city itself was just as incredible," Merlin explained, "but more importantly, it was real ."

Tom nodded, turning back to the pages with greater interest.

They were silent for a long time after that. Whilst Tom began to read, Merlin thought quietly to himself of all that had been. 

He had not stayed long in Camelot after Arthur... well. 

Gwen had welcomed him back the only way she knew how, with open arms and with unwavering kindness. To this day he could not express his gratitude. He had needed Gwen more than ever in those few years. She had known Arthur since the beginning of it all, only she had been through it as Merlin had. She'd felt the wrath of Morgana and yet also known her as a sweet friend; she'd seen Arthur grow and watched Uther fall; she'd seen Merlin lose everything and she'd lost it with him. And, above all, she was the only one who knew a fraction of his guilt. She’d spent many nights telling a mute Merlin not to blame himself, and then believing somehow that she herself was responsible, and could have done something to save Arthur.

The repeal of the magic ban had passed in a blur, nothing he remembered as happily as it should have been. His realisation of his own immortality, in the wake of Gaius’ death, had driven him painfully from the city within a decade of Camlann. He remembered his last words to everyone, but he just couldn't watch them die–couldn’t watch Gwen die–as he had watched Arthur.

Gwen had lived the longest of Merlin’s old friends, and when she’d died without a successor, Camelot had fallen with her. Merlin had found himself truly alone for the first time, and the feeling left him irrevocably changed.

Merlin forced himself to take in air slowly, denying an involuntary gasp. He couldn't be pulled into that now. 

He turned his attention to Tom. The boy sat quietly reading through the first chapter of Camelot history, a world away. 

It was so strange to watch him come close to that lost world and not know Merlin’s connection to it. Lately it had become quite impossible to look at the boy without thinking of the secrets still between them, both on Merlin’s side and Tom’s.

Was it worth a punt? Tom looked calm enough, and satisfied, Merlin wondered if he'd be likely to open up. Whatever the mood, addressing what had been weighing on him was always going to be a massive risk. 

Merlin sat back in his chair, thumb and forefinger nervously rubbing his clean-shaven chin. He had to know, but he was quite honestly terrified to jeopardise the connection he had built with Tom. The whole thing rested on a strange mutual understanding, and even Merlin's own curiosity could not convince him entirely that it was worth breaking that down for answers. 

It was unsettling that Tom could scare him like this. They'd had no slip ups so far, no outbursts. The longer Tom lasted and the more control he learned over his magic, the more the tension built. Surely, now that Tom had come on so well, there was little enough risk of an outburst that... Merlin pulled  his thoughts back into line.

He knew full well he could deal with a magical outburst from Tom, but the truth was he didn't want to. He didn't want it to come to that, because it meant facing up to the importance of his task. Tom was powerful, he could easily become another Grindelwald or Morgana. Only Merlin stood in the way, and he would rather not acknowledge the pressure he'd put himself under if he could help it.

Loneliness has made you a coward . A little voice in his head chided.

Merlin straightened up suddenly, distracting the attention of Tom from his reading.

"Could I ask you something?" There was no going back now. Merlin swallowed as Tom bookmarked his page and nodded, expectant.

"It's about something you said at Wool’s. It’s just been playing on my mind is all,” Merlin mused as casually as he could manage. “I believe you called me a ‘muggle-lover,’ which was quite crass, but I can't help wondering how you even knew the word."

Tom had gone rigid.

"I told you," he said smoothly, his body relaxing with some difficulty, "I knew I was different, I did enough research that I was beginning to piece together the skeleton of our world. You completed the picture, but I knew a lot already." His voice was enviably neutral, his face betrayed nothing but innocence. "I came across it in accounts, I suspected we would have a term for them all."

Merlin's stomach turned. He didn’t like the boy’s tone when he spoke about muggles, and he was suddenly less motivated to be delicate.

"But I don't believe you," he said bluntly. There wasn’t a subtle way to go about it with Tom anyway, he was too perceptive.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "Why? What could be unreasonable about that?"

"It's just that, the more I think about it, the more unlikely it gets. The Statute of Secrecy is not something wizards take lightly, things don't just slip through gaps. I can perhaps allow you the coincidence of finding accounts of muggles seeing magic, but there shouldn't be any source in public libraries where you could find the word. And as I said, it all rests on coincidence."

"How else could I have come across it then?" Tom was calm. If you didn't know him, you would think he was completely unfazed by the situation, but Merlin could see the alarm in the boy's cold eyes.

"That's what I'm asking you." Merlin gently refused the deflection. "I think you know more about the wizarding world than you let on, and I can't think how."

Tom was silent. His eyes shifted around the room before settling on Merlin. For a moment he looked like he was about to come clean, and then his expression hardened. 

"It’s strange to me," he said, a horrible little smile playing on his lips. "You want me to open up, but you're not willing to do the same. Why do you feel entitled to know everything about me, when you’re lying about yourself?"

The lump that had formed in Merlin's throat dropped like a stone into his stomach. He knew .

Tom's smile visibly grew. Merlin realised his surprise had crept onto his face, giving him away. 

But it wasn’t really surprise. It was moreso the unpleasant sensation of something he had suspected, and dreaded, becoming true. It took one to know one, and anyone in close quarters with Merlin would realise he wasn’t all he made out to be.

He needed to take a different approach. Tom was not going to speak to him unless Merlin gave him a reason to. There was no sympathy within Tom to appeal to, it had to be in Tom's own interests to tell Merlin what he knew and how he knew it. 

"Ok, I’ll give you that one,” he conceded, “but it makes me feel old to talk about the past, and much of my work is confidential and not mine to share.” 

He had told Tom a little about his research, and said that he worked with very fragile texts that couldn’t just be left around. It was an easy career to talk off-handedly about, but he knew Tom didn’t like it. 

“But my intentions are honorable,” he continued, “I don’t know that yours are.” He deflected back on to Tom. “I’m just beginning to doubt everything you say. I’m growing wary, and drawing outlandish conclusions and… I just don’t want to feel like I need to have you under surveillance. How am I to help you and let you have your independence if all you want to give me is an elaborate facade?”

The irony was painful, but he ignored it. Tom certainly didn’t want Merlin breathing down his neck all the time, so it was in his interests to tell the truth to get him off his back.

Across the room, Tom bit his lip. "I've learnt to keep my guard up. You can hardly blame me." He was still reluctant, but the words were his first admittance that he had something to hide.

"I don't blame you. But I've allowed you into my home, I’ve trusted you, I see something in you worth caring deeply about. I'd like to think I'm owed your authentic self, when I've been nothing but kind to you."

Tom swallowed and looked down at his lap. Merlin had not expected the sympathy card to have any effect, but something had clearly tugged at him. When the silence dragged for five minutes, Merlin decided to come at it a little more gradually.

"Had you ever met another wizard before me?" He asked softly.

"No," Tom admitted. It seemed, astoundingly, like the truth.

"So… if you didn't find it in a book, or hear it in person, where else could you have learnt this stuff?" Merlin mused out loud, looking around the room as if searching for answers right in front of him. His eyes eventually settled back on Tom.

"If you're trying to talk the answer out of me, you won't,” Tom persisted. “Perhaps you were mistaken and you never heard me say such a thing."

"I'm pretty sure." 

Tom raised his eyebrows in a challenge.

"Well," Merlin said, "perhaps you'll let me ask about something else that’s entirely unrelated?" He didn't expect to fool Tom with this, and Tom knew that. They were just sparring now, but it was better than arguing, and it gave him the confidence to broach the subject. Tom made no objection, so Merlin continued. 

"You went on a trip with the orphanage last summer," he said. Tom nodded slowly, calculating. "You went to the beach, I was told, and when you were there you found a cave.” 

Tom sat forward slightly in his seat. He cocked his head in faux curiosity, but Merlin saw the glint of anger in his eyes. He feared the decision was already backfiring, and that it would’ve been wiser to keep this knowledge to himself, but the damage was done and he finished anway.

"You took two children into the cave, and they were never the same again. Can you tell me more about that?" 

Tom looked utterly betrayed. 

“I s’pose it was Martha who told you that. Damn it! I should’ve figured she’d got to you.” He lightly spat Martha’s name, his hurt unconcealed. It dawned on Merlin why the boy had been so affected by his earlier words: for a moment Tom had trusted him. He’d never been told he was worth caring about. 

He brought a fist to his mouth and bit down on the knuckle. Stupid. He’d been stupid. Martha was a childhood villain in Tom’s eyes, he felt wronged by her, and was betrayed by Merlin’s association.

"Don't listen to anything she says to you,” Tom pressed, and Merlin saw that it was really a plea more than it was a command. “You know, she tried to get me sent off to institutions and put in a loony bin. She’s a filthy muggle–”

"Tom!" Merlin put an end to his rant. He almost never raised his voice. "None of that language in this house."

Tom, knuckles white clutching the books on his lap, took a deep breath, eyes narrow. The rare sharpness in his new guardian’s voice had stalled him, but he was struggling to control himself. Merlin began to feel his magic simmering in the air and he hoped that the breathing exercises he had given would be enough.

“Hey, hey, I’m not trying to go against you.” He tried to mediate. Tom was charged up by what he saw as confirmation of Merlin’s alliance with the enemy, and looked on the brink of a meltdown.

"Don’t lie to me.” He said so quietly that it sent the hairs on the back of Merlin's neck on end. Then he blew up. 

"You always lie to me!” He cried. “You're a wizard, I thought you'd understand!" Magic crackled in the air around Tom and his neatly combed hair was ruffled by a strange breeze that had swept up through the room.

His control lasted only a moment longer: he stood up out of the arm chair, the books fell from his lap and before Merlin could catch them all the glass in the cabinet beside him shattered outwards. The room crackled with magic, sparks igniting the stove across the room and pressure cracking the two empty cocoa mugs out on the side. Wind howled up through the fireplace, dislodging soot and debris.

" Hilderand ," Merlin whispered instinctively, throwing an arm out towards Tom. The shield surrounded the boy as the force of his own magic threw him off his feet. Shards of glass showered over Merlin and then all of a sudden the magic evaporated. He breathed desperately, coughing against the dust, surveying the damage.

The sound of shattering glass had left a ringing in his ears and Merlin felt as though he was watching the scene from far away, detached from his body. Slowly, very slowly, Tom got shakily to his feet. He looked around him, drinking in the sight with dead eyes, similarly distant. He looked down at his own hands, examining them carefully.

It was a while before he realised Merlin was there, Tom gave him an empty stare. He’d struck himself dumb. 

"I–" Merlin croaked, attempting to shake some of the glass out of his hair and noting that he had several small cuts that tickled and stung as they bled down his arm. The adrenaline was subsiding and the sensation in his limbs returning.

"I'm sorry," he said sheepishly, embarrassed, "I should have seen that coming." He wondered where exactly their conversation had derailed and realised the seeds had been sown long before it.

Still Tom didn't move, he stared Merlin down uncomfortably, fists clenched at his side.

"I–I can mend all this," Merlin waved a hand, indicating the chaos around them, at a loss of what to do, "I was always breaking things as a kid."

He shakily pulled his wand from his pocket, flicking it towards the cabinet, averting his eyes to hide their golden warmth. He ran a clammy hand through his hair as the glass on the ground was pulled by an invisible force back into the cabinet frames. Tom watched this all silently and it scared Merlin that he wasn't reacting. Was he angry? Was he in shock?

"I should have known it would end like this," he found himself saying, thinking back to the many outbursts he'd had as a child. At first, he'd been shocked that the magic he usually had such tight control over could lash out like that–stronger than it ever was under his command. The more he had been forced to suppress it, the more liable to an outburst he had become. This particular incident from Tom had probably been building for days. Merlin kicked his foot into the rug in frustration. He had missed all the signs, let it go too far. He felt so out of his depth.

At least he was sure now, for better or for worse, Tom's magic was very, very strong.

"When it compresses all the air around you... you can’t hear or see very well, or even think. I know that feeling like nothing else." Merlin was unsure why he found himself saying this. He was unsure what to say at all. Anything to fill the silence was welcome. "You think you've got a hold on it and then… it just takes on a mind of its own."

"I'll be able to use this power soon?" Tom finally spoke. He was standing in the same place, looking intensely between Merlin, the mended cabinet and his open hands.

"Yeah," Merlin said, still breathing with difficulty and collapsing back down into his chair, exhausted.

"Everyone's magic is unique," he explained, his voice hoarse, but he was happy to talk about anything except their argument. Tom had become disoriented in the wake of his outburst, forgetting it. Merlin’s words gently brought him back to earth.

"When you get a wand, there’s a whole process in finding one that complements you and your magic. Once you begin to properly study at Hogwarts, it will be less erratic and more willing to cooperate. It’s a very personal process, I think, of getting to know yourself. Magic is a part of everything. It is the fabric of this world; it is in everyone. It’s important for a wizard to get to know that in order to reach his full potential.” 

"You mean to say that muggles have magic in them?" Tom scoffed lightly, but raised his eyebrows when Merlin made no move to object this. He dropped into his arm chair. "Magic to me doesn’t feel like that. I respect it, obviously, but I intend to control it." 

"I’m sure you will. That respect will help you to.” Merlin tried to be kind. “But I think magic has already been a deeper companion to you even if you haven't realised it. When I was young, I only had my magic for company. It was several years before I met anyone who did not view me with suspicion, or cast me out. I was the gangly, clumsy boy who could do things no one else understood." 

It pained him to think of Ealdor, of Will, but he found a strange calm was washing over him. He felt like it was important to show Tom that he could open up about things, and it shouldn't be something to scare him. Despite the hypocrisy of this thought, Merlin continued. He hoped to better Tom's understanding of himself.

"Believe me when I say this: I know what it feels like to be hated. To be distrusted by everyone for just being me. I was on the same path as you for a while, but I met someone who was able to pull me out of my own darkness. To teach me that what I had was a gift, and that there were still good people in the world. I've learnt to judge muggles and wizards equally, and I'm no weaker for it. You may have been at odds with the people at Wool’s, but that does not mean that Mr Peters, who gave you a tip this morning, is a bad man."

Tom scrutinised Merlin as they sat in silence, the warlock's words hanging in the air between them. 

Eventually, he spoke again, changing the subject to question Merlin about Hogwarts, Diagon Alley and the world he was about to enter. He gave Merlin grace by doing so, and he was grateful for it. It was hard to know if he just wanted to forget their argument had ever happened, or if he was holding back his anger to save face. 

Merlin wondered if they were destined to be locked in this cycle of truth and betrayal forever. 

The issue was far from resolved, but their connection clearly meant something to Tom, and he was willing to swallow a disagreement to protect it. Under the worrying exterior, he was just a little boy who wanted to be understood. 

Merlin was coming close to it.

Chapter Text

~21st June, 1938...

Chapter Text

1st August, 1938...

Martha,

It is with a heavy but determined heart that I take Tom Riddle from your care, and, in parting, I ask only one more favour of you.

You have been at Wool’s for many years, I have seen your dedication to the children there with my own eyes. There are few who would give up so much for those so unfortunate and you have always strived to give them equal opportunities. I cannot thank and respect you enough.

Tom is no ordinary child, everyone knew this. My task is monstrous, but my hope is I can see Tom through to adulthood and mould a better man. I believe, though daunting, it is within my capabilities to save Tom, but he must be committed to it himself if I am to succeed. It is a long game.

I ask only that you stay alert. The world is becoming a dangerous place, and there are forces at play far larger than we can conceive. Time makes stops for no man, and we must all be prepared to face what the future will bring. I am old, Martha, but I must keep moving.

I am certain that this letter, and this meeting, will not be our last.

Until the next time,

M. Thomas.

Martha eyed the note she had received those few short months ago. She smoothed it out against the stained desk, yellowed in the dim lamplight of the study. 

It was early evening, dusk creeping in shadows down the hall, and another letter had just arrived.

Ms Martha Cole,

10:30am 12th September

70 Pennethorne Road,

Peckham,

London

M. Thomas

P.S. Bell doesn't work, just knock.

Martha let a small smile slide across her lips as she placed the two letters on top of each other, smoothing them out carefully in a desk draw. Slipping the key into its lock she secured the letters, conscious of the unanswerable questions that could arise if they fell into any of the other staff's hands.

The often stern faced orphanage matron felt an uncharacteristic fluttering in her chest as she headed back toward the common room. His intrigue was too exciting, she couldn't help it. Though the mention of Tom Riddle made her skin crawl, she would be there.

1st September, 1938...

Stepping through a solid brick wall was always going to be a peculiar experience. In one side, out the other, with a momentary feeling of static as you passed through. Like you were shrinking and growing all at once in a strange contortion that you couldn't quite place.

Or perhaps it was just Merlin's senses going awol. That was far more likely.

After all, he had been on a strange plane of high alert since yesterday evening. He hadn't slept a wink and his eyes were dry and heavy, but magic was tingling under the surface of his body– so much so that he thought if one of the many wizards around them brushed past him, he might give them a shock.

Tom, clutching Merlin's hand on his right and his suitcase in his left, had certainly noticed how on edge he’d been this morning. However, now on the platform of the Hogwarts Express, Tom's thoughts were captured elsewhere.

The gleaming red steam engine filled the bustling station with mechanical hums and steady puffs of steam. Wizarding families of all shapes and sizes filled most of the platform; cages containing all manner of animals and trolleys piled high with trunks took up any remaining space.

As soon as Tom laid eyes on the train he started forward, but Merlin gently held him back.

"Easy on, we've got plenty of time."

Tom grumbled slightly at this, but held fast, stopping to give Asio a stroke through the bars of his cage. The young Riddle had also been on edge today. As expected, he was desperate to get to use his magic, and his impatience only grew the closer he got to Hogwarts. Merlin held out hope that despite this, maybe, just a little, Tom was sad to say goodbye to him too.

Merlin knew he would see Tom again at Christmas, but that didn’t make it any easier. He had no idea if the wizarding school was going to help or entirely hinder his progress, and it terrified him to let him go.

He'd had this inner battle many times over: desperate to cling on to Tom, but resolved to give him his freedom. Tom would undoubtedly resent him if he was kept locked up in Pennethorne road. He still needed to grow up like a normal child. Maybe this conflict was a sliver of what it felt to be a normal parent.

Crouching down so he was eye level with Tom, he turned the boy round to face him. "You will write, won't you?" He said, and Tom rolled his eyes at his fussing. 

"Yes." The boy replied with little conviction.

"Here," Merlin said, digging into his duffle coat pocket and withdrawing a small drawstring pouch that jingled with wizard currency, "this should cover your lunch on the train and anything else you fancy." He gave the bag to Tom, who nodded his gratitude, fixated on the train behind them. Every so often a floating trunk or a wizard in particularly luminescent robes would pass and catch his brief attention, but true to his nature, Tom had a single focus.

"You know, I was terrified when I first went to Hogwarts." Merlin lied, but Tom pricked up in interest at Merlin's mention of his past, "Going off to a big castle; hundreds of people you barely know; expectations heavy on your shoulders..." Merlin recounted what it felt like to arrive in Camelot all those years ago. If he hadn't had Gaius and Gwen to guide him through those first few weeks he wasn't sure what would have happened. Probably a lot more of the stocks.

True, he'd never been to Hogwarts, but he knew what arriving in a new place felt like.

“Well I’m not scared. Just desperate to learn as much as possible. I don’t want to fall behind because I haven’t had as much time with magic as I should have done.” He seemed genuinely worried. This was, after all, a clear point of insecurity for the boy. Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder meaningfully as he reassured him.

"I'm certain that when it comes to your lessons you won't have a problem. You've an incredibly sharp mind Tom, and you'll take to magic like a fish to water. I do have a challenge for you, though."

"You do?" 

"I want you to make a friend."

Tom let out a sharp breath as soon as Merlin spoke, "I don't need any friends, Mr Thomas. I have been fine in the past without. I'm at Hogwarts solely to study."

Merlin smiled sadly, shaking his head. He saw the tiniest flicker of confusion in Tom's eyes at his reaction, but the young boy was adamant not to let Merlin see it. His guardian’s disappointment had affected him.

"You'll do more than just study at Hogwarts, Tom. It's a big old place, and it is inevitable you will come across situations where you need help. All a friend is, is someone you can trust to be there for you, and who you are prepared to be there for. It's not about favours, or deals, or power– it's about mutual respect and caring for another person. Your house-mates will be like your family." Merlin's tone was earnest as he tried to convey to Tom how important he felt this was.

"I don't have a family," Tom ground out under his breath, but Merlin heard the cutting words loud and clear.

" Neither do I, " Merlin whispered in reply, "but that doesn't mean I am unable to form friendships. It doesn't make me incapable of trying."

When Tom didn't reply, Merlin pressed.

"I'm disappointed you're unwilling to listen to me. Believe it or not Tom, I only have your best interests at heart."

"Alright." Tom agreed at last, and Merlin stood up again, satisfied.

"You might even find you enjoy it!" He said, lightheartedness bouncing back to him. "Come on, let's get your stuff onto the train."

As they picked up Tom's bags between them, Merlin made a silent prayer that the boy would find companions. He didn't want Tom to become isolated again, for fear he might get picked on, and grow to resent more people than he already did. He wanted Tom to form more connections with other children, but it was a rather tall ask considering he’d never managed it before. Perhaps an older student would take Tom under their wing? Merlin liked the thought of that. Maybe it was because he felt that if Tom had a companion, there would be someone to take over and protect the boy when Merlin couldn't.

His last few minutes with Tom Riddle passed in a bit of a blur. He hadn't realised how hard it would be, nor how fast it would all be over. Before he knew it he was frantically waving to a retreating train. Parents and family members flocked around him, each trying to get a last smile and blow a final kiss to their children, whose heads stuck happily out of the carriage windows.

Tom, who had found somewhere to sit near the back of the train, peered calmly through the glass at Merlin's waving form that stuck out amongst the other families. He paused for a moment, before waving back, smiling. Not a sly smile, or a cruel smile, or an empty one. Instead it was pure and hopeful.

Merlin savoured that moment all the way home.

12th September, 1938...

Merlin straightened his faded blue shirt collar as he made his hastened way to the front door, wordlessly freezing the moving painting in the vestibule as he did so. The face of Martha appeared over the threshold moments later and the warlock led her through to the kitchen of the house on Pennethorne road with a mutter of "I'll put the kettle on."

Martha herself took a seat on one of the stools at the worktop, taking in the house around her with a calm eye. She smiled at Merlin briefly, Merlin returning her gesture with a goofy grin as he forced himself to manually take out the mugs from the overhead cupboard. He was pleased to see her.

"You have a lovely home, Mr Thomas." Martha commented.

"It's quaint and simple. Has everything I need," Merlin paused, "Tom was surprised by it though."

To this comment Martha only smiled sadly, leaving a heavy silence that reminded the pair who else now resided in the house. A thousand years lived mostly on his own and it still felt strange without the boy. They'd had their fair share of tense evenings, and Tom was always going to be more inclined to his own company, but they had definitely bonded over the few months he'd moved in. Tom was less guarded around Merlin in private, and he had begun to often seek out the warlock’s company in the weeks leading up to the first of September. 

Generally, it was to ask about the magical world. To query something in one of his school books that he had cracked open as soon as he got them, or to ask more questions about the nature of his own magic. He'd been doing his control exercises, and Merlin was confident that there wouldn't be any accidental outbursts when he arrived at Hogwarts. All in all, he was very satisfied with their progress so far, given the circumstances. Tom could be snide, rude and cold, but he could also be thoughtful, dedicated and spirited. Merlin's unusual fondness for him hadn't ceased to grow.

"What did you wish to speak to me for? Your letter had very few details." Martha cut to the point of their meeting, pulling Merlin from his musings.

"Ah, yes." Merlin said, stalling to collect himself together, "It's about Tom."

"I would never have guessed." Martha said, sarcasm laced in her tone, a grim sense of humour evident.

Merlin sighed in response, taking a seat and beginning to explain.

"He's settled in well so far. We sat down and talked things over the day he moved in– about his heritage, his future, etcetera. I guess it was then my seeds of doubt were sown about a few things. Between the lines of what he told me there were facts that didn't add up, and I need answers. I think he knows more than he is telling me. I tried confronting him about it once... though he didn't react too well." Merlin picked his words carefully, skimming over the magical parts of the story, watching Martha's small frown deepen as he spoke.

"I've told you everything I know about the boy, so I'm not sure how I can help you, but I'll do my best. I understand the root of your concern," Martha’s expression darkened, "after all, he's not a boy you can risk being fooled by."

Merlin swallowed, understanding all too well. "I've got one possible lead on this, and whilst Tom is away at school I–"

"Tom is at school?" Martha cut in, brow crinkling in a little disbelief.

"It's a... boarding school of sorts. My hope is it will be more suited to him than the other public schools here in London." Merlin tried to explain, wincing a little as he struggled to articulate himself. To his relief, Martha just nodded for him to continue. Though she didn't press him about it, Merlin knew that his vagueness was not going unnoticed.

"Anyway, I wanted to seize the opportunity to investigate. This may seem a strange question to ask you, but I need to know where it was you took the children to the beach last summer." 

Martha opened and then promptly closed her mouth. It took a moment for her to find the words to speak and Merlin began to fret that he had asked too much without explanation.

"It's certainly a strange question, Mr Thomas. I only wonder, among many things, why you couldn't have asked me this in your letter?" Martha mused.

Merlin smiled, "I know I've been a little vague with you, but I wanted to speak in person. After all, how else are you going to get properly caught up?"

To this Martha chuckled lightly, "I am certainly curious as to what you've been getting up to. Perhaps we can discuss it on the journey."

Merlin frowned. He had been planning to go this one alone. He wanted to keep Martha updated, of course, but he didn't want to drag her into anything that could be dangerous. And while Martha might suspect he was more than he seemed, Merlin also didn't want to go without magic, as he would have to with her tagging along.

By the length of his pause, Martha seemed to catch on to his train of thought.

"I'm coming," she said, "and there isn't anything you can do about it."

"I– I never said I was going anywhere." Merlin replied.

"You didn't need to."

Merlin exchanged a glance with the orphanage matron. Of course, she would guess what he wanted to find at that beach. Regardless if Martha wanted to join him, he wouldn't have it. He couldn't risk it. He could understand why Martha might think a simple cave wasn't cause for so much danger, but in truth Merlin was worried what he might find there. The reason for Tom's behaviour, the truth about the boy… the possibilities were not light ones.

"I can't pull you into this, Martha," he said earnestly. "If you just give me the location, I can fill you in on what Tom's been up to–"

"I understand." Martha cut Merlin off, taking a pen and notepad from her bag and tearing out a page. She handed it to Merlin, an address written in a slanted scrawl. Merlin nodded his thanks awkwardly, taking the piece of paper.

"You're right though," she said after stowing the pen and pad back in her bag, "you've got a lot of filling in to do.

Over the best part of the morning, Merlin told Martha about his progress with Tom. He told her about the paper round Tom had; his interest in reading; their trips out to the market on weekends and how pleased Tom had been to get a place at his school. Merlin told Martha that it was an obscure institution for the gifted and talented in the North, and he stressed how good it would be for Tom to socialise with like-minded people.

He also recounted to Martha his challenges. Saying goodbye to Tom a fortnight previously had been surprisingly difficult, and though Martha was sympathetic, it was obvious she had not shared his experience when the boy had left Wool’s for good. 

Dealing with Tom's naturally reclusive nature was an obstacle they’d shared, however, not to mention his firmly set opinions and often cold reaction to meeting new people. 

"He's very calm with me," Merlin finished, "but he doesn't care for anyone else but himself it seems. I haven’t worked out how to approach the fact that he genuinely sees himself as superior to other people without seeming cruel, and like I’m trying to pull him down.”

"It sounds like there’s been a step in the right direction," Martha countered, "you're the first person Tom's ever had such a connection with. He was always so tense at Wool’s. You felt as if he might lash out at any moment."

Merlin nodded as she spoke, "Yes, we've been working on that." He said, referencing the simple exercises he'd given Tom.

“If you don’t want to tear him down a peg, which– pardon my brashness– he probably needs, then maybe you should focus on raising everyone else up to his level, make him appreciate them more.” Martha’s refreshing angle on things was sometimes invaluable.

As the morning came to a close and Martha prepared to return to Wool’s, she pointed to the bit of paper she'd given the Merlin.

"Good luck," she said, "when do you plan to visit the cave?"

"I shall probably go today, actually," Merlin replied as they made their way toward the front door. "Some things just need to be faced right away."

"I couldn't agree more." Martha smiled, heading out over the threshold into the mild midday. "Until next time, Mr Thomas."

"Always a pleasure!" Merlin replied, waving the Orphanage lady goodbye, holding the address note firmly in his hand. He waited until she reached the corner of the street before shutting the door and sucking in a deep breath. Grabbing his satchel and coat, he prepared to leave soon after her.

Minutes later, Merlin stood out on the street beside his house, examining the now crumpled address.

Tintagel Castle,

Castle Rd,

Tintagel

Cornwall

Merlin found himself smiling. Tintagel, of course. Famously named as the birthplace of King Arthur in the many fantastical stories that had sprung up long after the fall of Camelot from memory. Beginning to make his way down the street, he pondered the irony of being led to such a place. He did his best to steer clear of places tied with Camelot, because he never liked to read those ridiculous tales. Just this once, however, he was going to need to make an exception.

Lost in thought, he ducked into a familiar alleyway around the corner from Pennethorne Road and pictured the rolling Cornish coastline in his mind. He felt his magic rise up from within him and a swirling wind began to kick about his heels. He checked once again the alleyway was still empty, before he spoke:

"Byre, bringaþ mec tó Tintagel "

Just as Merlin felt himself drawn away from the London pavement, he flinched under a strong grip on his wrist. There was barely time for alarm to sink in before everything went blank.

Gradually, a sense of surroundings returned. A sky of patchy clouds. Dappled sunlight moving slowly across rolling countryside. A breeze coming off the distant sea. There, on the headland, Tintagel.

Merlin drew in a couple long breaths as he took in the mighty view of the English coastline. He observed what looked to be excavation works happening near the cliff side where the remains of Tintagel castle must be, and a small footpath winding its way down toward the pebble beach at the base of the cliffs. Sea pinks, just like those in his painting at home, were scattered about the long surrounding grass with cornflower and tiny violets. A low hum signalled a bumble bee making its leisurely way from flower to flower, aimlessly fighting the incoming breeze.

It truly was beautiful.

"I did wonder how you planned to visit Cornwall in a day."

Merlin dropped his satchel in shock, a rush of panic washing over him as he recalled the hand he'd felt grab on to him just moments ago back in London.

He whirled round, running one hand through his unruly hair in disbelief and reaching with the other to help up a rather dishevelled but spirited looking Martha Cole from where she had landed in the grass beside him.

"W-what are you doing here?" He exclaimed, though it came out more as a hoarse whisper.

"This is a two person job. I simply planned to follow you," Martha replied, glancing around herself as if to check her surroundings were real. "You're right though, what are we doing here?"

Merlin opened his mouth to try and articulate a response but found his throat still dry.

"I–"

"I felt like I was flying… or falling apart– and those strange words you spoke–” She turned to him with a slightly crazed expression. “Explain to me how a moment ago we were in London, and now we are in– in Cornwall!" Martha cried, pacing up and down. Then, when Merlin still found himself unable to answer, she started to laugh.

She looked incredulously at Merlin and over the sound of his pounding heart against his chest, he too heard himself begin to chuckle. It was an insane moment that the pair of them shared, neither quite believing what had just happened.

Martha stopped laughing rather abruptly, straightening up in a small attempt to regain some of her usual composure. Merlin bit his lip.

"We really are in Cornwall, Mortimer?"

"Yes," Merlin said, "I– I'm not sure I know how to explain without–" he trailed off, unable to finish.

Martha furrowed her brow, turning toward the expansive sea view before them. It was an agonising moment before she spoke, Merlin too nervous to even move. His mind frantically whirred for possible cover-ups, but he knew he had no options.

"If you tried to explain," Martha admitted, "I'm not even sure I'd understand."

Merlin swallowed.

"The fact of the matter is," she continued, as if trying to console herself as much as she was Merlin, "I should have expected something like this from you, Mr Thomas." Martha's face flickered between a smile and a frown, struggling to decide how to express her surprise at the situation.

Merlin cursed himself for allowing this to happen. Here he was, trying to solve the mystery of a boy who could be the next dark wizard, now stuck on a cliff-side in Cornwall after carelessly revealing his magic. It was an absurd situation and his thoughts reeled as he studied Martha's conflicted expression. Of all the things he'd asked of her, dealing with this would surely be too much. A single idea emerged in his head.

Will I have to?

No, I would never.

He would not interfere with her memories. It was invasive, and he detested the very idea.

"Martha I– I know this is a lot. I'm not like other people, but I’m not dangerous. I mean you no harm. And now that you’re here… perhaps this is a two person job." Merlin stepped forward, offering out a hand.

Martha looked up at Merlin, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Over the years I've always found things I can't explain,” he continued, “things I can't even comprehend. I live today on some blind faith in destiny, believe me, I am aware of how absurd this all is. Please, I'm just asking you to trust me."

She took his hand.

"I've always taught the children not to believe in such silly things as magic," Martha muttered almost to herself. She looked up at Merlin, gauging him with narrowed eyes as if they had just met. "That's what it is?"

Merlin nodded almost sheepishly, anxiety flooding his system as Martha scrutinised him.

The thought that Martha might view him differently weighed heavy on him. He'd seen it before; former friends looking at him with fear, or with expectations he could never fulfil. Yes, he had magic, but that didn't make him any less gangly, awkward and human . That didn't make him invincible.

"But you're very much believable," Martha considered, "I'd like to think I've made sense of you now, but in fact I think I'm further from that than I've ever been."

Merlin gulped. "Does– does that worry you?"

"I imagine it should," Martha paused, staring out to sea blankly for a moment, "but no, it doesn't. A part of me finds it quite exciting."

The pair of them proceeded to make their way down toward the castle ruins on the headland in silence, Martha leading Merlin to a small well trodden path that wove its way down to the lowest part of the rocky cliff edge where you could access the cove beside the castle.

Merlin found himself glancing constantly over at the woman to check he wasn't mistaken. She looked calm, almost. Whereas Merlin's chest still thudded with the adrenaline that had saturated his body and now refused to leave. He had to pinch himself back into focus when his feet suddenly hit sand and he almost stumbled.

"We told the children not to go in the cave as it could be unstable." Martha spoke at last, matter-of-factly.

Merlin nodded, "I can't imagine what drew Tom in there." 

They paced along the sand a moment, the mossy and lichen covered entrance to the cavern opening up in the rock at the edge of the cove. Sea water lapped gently into a channel at its mouth, but a damp raised ledge looked as though it allowed entrance alongside. Merlin felt it almost immediately. The pull of familiar magic.

The old religion resided here.

He took a sharp breath as it hit him, stalling. Martha stopped, casting a glance back at him with minor alarm.

"What is it?"

Merlin didn't speak, instead, he took Martha's hand and placed it against the rock beside the mouth of the cave.

" Feel ," he said, and Martha closed her eyes in concentration for a moment.

"It's… vibrating. Only a little, I wouldn't have noticed without you prompting me," she replied, surprised. But neither she nor Merlin could fight a smile forming at the gentle pulsing of the old religion imbued within the rock. In certain places, it was still strong enough to be felt, and it restored Merlin's hope in his life force.

"Do you think it drew Tom in, then?"

"Definitely." Any modern wizard who came here would be able to feel it, especially those with a strong core like Tom. They would hardly be able to resist. He was surprised this place had not been identified by wizards before, unless, perhaps, the magic was calling only to Tom, and only to him.

They made their way cautiously into the cave, Merlin sent a silent glance to Martha as they began edging along the ridge as if to say: are you sure? But Martha just gripped the hem of her skirt as the water lapped at her heels, determined.

Daylight faded quickly from the slick, black rock, and the tiniest movement echoed down the cavern. The inky black water reflected in ripples on the cave roof, before the pair were plunged into darkness.

Merlin took a deep breath, cautiously allowing a small orb of golden light to appear gradually in his raised palm. He didn't want to startle Martha, who followed closely behind him. He heard her give a tiny gasp, but she said nothing. The small light aided their passage but shed no warmth, and Merlin felt the air grow eerily chilly. It was a few more minutes of bated breaths and shuffling along beside the water before anyone spoke again.

"You alright?" Merlin breathed.

"I’m alright. I work with children, Mortimer," came the reply, "I can control my own fears better than anyone."

In the gloomy glow, they exchanged a small smile, each offering the other the slightest reassurance, though they had no idea what they might find in this flooded stomach of the earth.

The sound of rushing water could now be heard faintly up ahead, and the ridge widened so that Merlin and Martha could now walk alongside each other. The cave opened up into a wide cavern. Merlin let his light grow brighter, watching as it moved from his hand and into the centre of the space, illuminating its walls that had probably never seen the light of day. They stood now on the rocky shore of a lake. The water from the sea flowed in from the tunnel and joined the murky depths of the large pool before them. In the centre, an island of sorts rose up from the depths, deep black slabs of slate and granite forming a pedestal of sorts.

It was them Merlin realised that his magic was not the only source of light in the cavern. There, upon the rocky pedestal, sat a glowing crystal.

Merlin's light overhead flickered in his shock.

"Oh no ."

Martha reached for Merlin's wrist, glancing nervously up at his light and pulling Merlin round to face her.

"What is it?"

"It's something that shouldn't be here." 

How had he let this happen? Granted, there were thousands of magical objects from the time of the old religion, there was no way he could keep track of them all... but this? Surely after all the pain the crystal had caused he would have thought to be more careful?

"Mortimer..." Martha said, brow furrowing at Merlin's silence.

"It's the crystal of Nehatid." Merlin answered at last. "It was given to the Druids to look after, but I don't understand how it could have ended up here."

"Well, perhaps the… the Druids took it here? It must be important, and this place seems quite protected." Her response was logically sound, though when Merlin glanced her way he saw she seemed entirely lost. Her eyes kept flicking between the crystal and Merlin's light with barely suppressed bewilderment, and Merlin felt a sharp pang of guilt. This wasn't something she deserved to have to come to terms with. And it was his fault for involving her.

Merlin nodded in reply, her suggestion was nonetheless reasonable. Though not ideal, he could understand why the Druids might have placed the crystal here. Protective wards could have been erected to deter anyone who came upon the cave, and these would have worn away over time once the Druid civilisations, and the old religion, receded into legend...

"I should have been more careful." Merlin said, shaking his head.

"There's no use looking back on it now." Martha said firmly. "What do we do?"

"The crystal is dangerous. It allows those with magic to see possible futures and pasts." Merlin said, beginning to pace. "It can't remain here, but–" Merlin stopped short.

A thought hit him. Of course, the reason Tom had known about the wizarding world was because he must have seen a vision in the crystals. But it didn't make sense...

"How was Tom able to use the crystal?" Merlin voiced aloud. Modern wizard's magic was not strong enough, only those with the old religion could see into the crystals. If Tom had been able to do so, then Merlin had made a serious miss-judgement about Tom's power. And he was sure he hadn't.

Martha’s lips parted as something dawned on her.

"So Tom is like you, isn't he,” she said quietly, evidently trying to process what she was hearing.

"In a way, yes." Merlin mused, but he was distracted.

"And you think he saw a– a vision in the crystal?"

"Yes. I just don't understand how."

"If you don’t know, then I’m afraid I’m no use. I mean, he has... magic, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but the crystal of Nehatid is of old magic. Only those with knowledge of that could ever hope to wield it." Merlin replied, sitting down against the cold hard stone and staring across the water at the crystal. He could feel its pulsing magic, drawing him in. Tempting him to look. He imagined Tom doing the same, causing despair to flood through him.

"Old magic? I'm sorry, this is all foreign to me." Martha said, coming over and sitting down beside him, her skirt dripping with accumulated water.

"The eternal force of the earth itself. What you feel in the rock beneath your feet exists in everything. It is the one constant." Merlin explained, trying to put into words the sheer awe he still felt when he thought of the old religion. How he could love and yet despise a single thing so much had always baffled him.

"It means a lot to you." Martha said, with a strange understanding.

"It does."

The two of them sat there a moment, numb against the freezing ground, watching the crystal and lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Merlin spoke.

"This is a lot for you, I just wish I didn’t have to put you through it."

Martha hummed in response. "I don't think I'm really processing it quite yet. When it all hits me, I imagine it's going to turn my world upside down."

"I’m sorry," Merlin whispered hoarsely.

“I never said it was a bad thing.”

Before he could answer her, Martha pointed at the crystal.

"You say the crystal is of the old magic. An all powerful force. So, perhaps it can make exceptions for who sees into it. Perhaps it makes the rules."

"You mean, Tom was able to see because the crystal wanted him to?" Merlin breathed. It was true, but Merlin couldn't understand why the old religion would allow a child filled with such darkness to channel its power. The danger it may have caused by releasing knowledge of possible futures upon the Riddle boy... It made no sense. If it was true, then Merlin found himself feeling a little betrayed. That the old religion would be the cause of such tension between him and Tom– it could have ended all chances of Merlin being able to reform him... and it would have been the old religion's fault.

"We need to get it out of here." Merlin said grimly, standing up.

Squinting, Merlin spied a boat across the water. Concentrating, he sent out a ripple of magic, bringing the boat gliding across the inky lake toward them. He clambered in once it reached them, leaving Martha as the boat would only hold one, and with another gentle push of his magic he sent himself across to the small island. He kept his eyes firmly away from the crystal as he made his way toward it. The temptation to peer into it was as strong as he had felt it for millennia, and it told him that the old religion wanted him to look. It had something to show him.

Merlin swallowed, gripping the rock in which the crystal was firmly embedded with both hands, realsing that his suspicions were correct. He was going to need to use the crystal to find the answers he sought. Filled with dread, he allowed his magic to melt the rock encasing the crystal of Nehatid, letting it slide effortlessly out. He was reminded of the spell he had used to draw Excalibur from its stone as he brought his glowing cargo back across the lake, only it inspired no great courage in him, as it once had.

After wordlessly placing the crystal into his discarded satchel, he turned to Martha.

"I don't know about you, but I'd like to get out of here."

Martha released a tense breath that it appeared she'd been holding a while. "Yes, let's ." She tried to display a smile of relief, but Merlin still saw the hint of fear in her eyes.

"I will explain as much as I can Martha, I promise. I know this all seems scary and overwhelming but I will keep you safe." Merlin tried his best to reassure her, and what he said was a promise. Granted, there were certain things he couldn't tell Martha, but he would do whatever he could to help her. He swore to himself, as they began their careful passage from the cave with the crystal in tow, that he would protect her from any danger he might have let her into by revealing his secret. It was the very least he could do.

It wasn't long before they were back up on the headland again, looking out to the monotonous rolling of the sea; taking in the smell of salt and flowers on the breeze as if nothing had happened. It was Merlin who broke their silence.

"Thank you for coming today. I fear this journey would have been much harder for me without your rationality." He meant every word. The old Warlock often found that his thoughts ran away with him when he was faced with ties to his past. Martha kept him in the present.

"It's no problem, really." Martha replied automatically, waving it off. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

"Why did you decide to follow me? I thought you wanted nothing to do with Tom." Merlin finally asked what had been brooding in the back of his mind whilst they were walking.

"Well we both know that changed," Martha replied, a small smile on her lips. "You said something to me, at the orphanage, that first evening. You implied I had abandoned Tom. And you were dead right. I realise it was the wrong thing to do– you may be the only one who seems to be able to connect with Tom, but I should have at least tried. I want to make up for that now."

"You said if I ever needed anything..." Merlin murmured.

"And I meant it. You’re a better man than me, Mortimer. You inspire me."

"It's going to be dangerous."

"Yes, I suppose it will." The orphange head replied matter-of-factly.

The two of them paused for a moment, Merlin composed himself.

"We should head back to London. I can take you back to Wool’s and we can try and work through any questions you have."

Martha frowned. "That would be appreciated, but what are we going to do about the crystal?"

"I'm thankful for your company today, really. And I never meant for you to have to see so much... but the crystal is something I have to face on my own." Even now he felt the dead weight of the object in his satchel, its gentle pulsing seeming more like a thundering heartbeat. Or perhaps that was his own? Deep within him, no matter how much it scared him, he felt that in his own company was the only way he could face what they crystal wanted to show him.

Reluctantly, Martha appeared to understand. It dawned on Merlin just how much she had supported him through the whole process of adopting Tom so far. She was the strongest friend he had had in centuries and that filled him with as much hope as it did terror.

"I'm breaking a lot of rules here, so you promise not to tell–"

"I promise." Martha reassured Merlin immediately, grasping the hand he offered her as he quietly began to chant the spell to take them back to Wool’s.

In a gust of swirling wind, the pair were gone.

It was the early hours of the morning when Merlin returned to Pennethorne Road. He and Martha had talked long into the night, and whilst Merlin couldn't tell her everything, he hoped he had explained enough to help her work through her revelation. He had talked little of himself, or of old magic due to it being a relative secret to even the modern wizarding world, but he could tell Martha had been curious about it nonetheless.

Eventually he had torn himself from his chair in the orphange office, Martha assuring him that she would be okay. She had asked, tentatively, if there was any way they could prevent her giving away the information. The thought that someone might try to force information out of Martha made Merlin sting with guilt. He had complied with a simple incantation that prevented them both from disclosing anything about their day besides to each other, before making his leave.

"I always suspected something about you, Mortimer," Martha had said on the threshold, "you always seemed older, with more than met the eye."

"What makes me look so old?" Merlin had replied.

"It's your eyes that betray you."

And with that, they had parted ways.

Now, Merlin's hands threatened to drop the leather bag holding the crystal they were shaking so violently, as he lowered himself into his armchair. He had hardly noticed the living room lights still off, or the fact that he still donned his cap, coat and satchel.

He just needed to sit down.

Merlin stilled his rattling breaths for a moment to slip his satchel off his shoulder and put it on the floor beside him. He lit a candle with one flick of his wrist and with another he drew the curtains, snuffing out the twilight that had been filtering into the dark room and leaving now only a single, dim-yellow glow.

Merlin found himself sinking into the chair, watching the flickering of the small candle for a long moment, finding no comfort.

He breathed deeply, the crystal like a dead weight on his lap.

The last time he had looked into the crystal of Nehatid he had seen a haunting vision of Kilgharrah attacking Camelot, and had later lived the experience. The last time he had looked into this crystal had been before Arthur became king. Before Morgana had truly been lost. Before Mordred had grown up.

And the last time he had dabbled in the visions of crystals like this one, Arthur had died .

There were a lot of things he had not expected when adopting Tom Riddle, but by far the greatest of these things was the amount Merlin found himself having to face his past. Living alone for so long, he had forgotten what memories being around others could stir. The old warlock was beginning to witness just how much emotional weight he was carrying around with him, and perhaps– despite his efforts– just how much that showed .

He recalled his earlier conversation with Martha:

" It's your eyes that betray you. "

Merlin took a shuddery breath. He was old, yes. Far, far too old.

And it saddened him more than he could say, for the years made him distant. The past and the present and the future lingered ever around him and he could never quite connect with any of them.

But he had to face this now.

Merlin took another deep, shuddering breath. He silently slipped the crystal from its pouch, and opened his eyes at last to the images it so desperately wanted to show him...

The first vision showed the cove at Tintagel. A slightly frazzled, but nonetheless composed Martha was leading a group of excited children down onto the sand, Merlin recognised many of them from his recent visit to the orphanage. Tom came into view, a few metres behind the gaggle of other children, his face stony and unforgiving, and he walked over the sand with a sense of boredom.

Casting his gaze around, Tom spotted the cave. Immediately his expression softened a little, a spark of curiosity lighting up his features. His eyes bore hungrily into the darkened entrance as Martha instructed the children that it was out of bounds.

The scene changed, now revealing the shadowy form of Tom as he inched his way along the narrowest part of the ledge, deep within the cave. The echoing sounds of his movements and the water below him seemed magnified. His feet followed the same path to the main cavern as Merlin and Martha had taken earlier that day, only there was no light to guide him. He moved totally in shadow, eyeing the faint glow of the crystal coming from ahead. When at last Tom spotted it across the lake his lips parted for a small moment in awe before a cold smile broke out across his face.

Without hesitation the young Riddle clambered into the boat which hovered nearby and used his arms to paddle it over to the raised ledge where the crystal of Nehatid sat almost menacingly, beckoning him forward.

For a moment Tom was completely enthralled by the object before him, but he soon stepped forward and grasped at its base, a feeble attempt to pull the crystal from its eternal resting place. At his touch, the crystal began to glow brighter, an image forming within. Curiously, Tom peered deep into it, lost in a trance.

The scene changed once more, now showing the grotty interior of an old fashioned living room. On the sofa sat a harsh looking man in wizard's robes. Other than the tell-tale way he held himself, the man betrayed no other signs of nobility besides a small golden ring upon his finger. It was familiar.

The man rose menacingly from the chair, addressing another figure that was barely noticeable in the corner of the room. A slight young woman, barely more than a girl, who wrung her hands nervously as the man spoke to her.

"He's a good for nothing scumbag. Oh yes, I know all about that interest you've been 'aving in that Riddle fellow."

The woman, who must be Merope Gaunt, cast her eyes to the floor, making her way as quickly as she could across the grotty room toward the door. The man that was probably Marvolo Gaunt shouted wildly after her:

"You are a Gaunt! Descendants from the great wizards! Hangin' about with that Muggle scum will only get you left in the dust missy!"

Merope took off out of the house, the sound of the man's shouting growing dimmer. She made her way through an over-grown front garden, her skirt tugging on creeping brambles that carpeted the concealed path. She reached the front gate of the derelict looking house, and clung onto the bars as she looked longingly out on the world outside.

A dashing young man with features similar to Tom's stood beside a horse-drawn carriage down the lane. He seemed totally oblivious to Merope's transfixed gaze, and he laughed loudly with someone inside the carriage before clambering in and disappearing quickly from view. Still, Merope stood there, hoping.

The vision changed again, this time revealing a much younger looking Martha Cole, holding the hand of an exhausted Merope. Her eyes held no more of their previous hope, instead they seemed dead to her surroundings. She slackened despairingly against the table, a hoarse whisper of " Tom " escaping her quivering lips before she breathed out once, and was silent.

As Martha bent over sadly to close the frail young woman's eyes, the scene faded. For a moment there was nothing, and then there came a distinct sound of a door being shut quietly. Footsteps down a hall.

The face of an old man appeared. He had a long white beard and hair, hollow cheekbones and a narrow face. His brow was furrowed in concentration, but his deep blue eyes sparkled with an internal light. As soon as the face appeared, it was gone.

The scenes began to change quickly now– flashes of frozen moments in time.

A round, kind faced man in green robes spoke to an older looking Tom Riddle.

"You are destined for great things, Tom," he said.

Then, a high-pitched, cold laugh. Merciless and unforgiving. It was accompanied by an image of a terrifying figure, barely human, with pitiless red eyes and deathly pale, grey skin. His nose was no more than two slits, much like that of a serpent.

An image of a vast army, marching steadily, their arms bearing a strange, pulsing mark.

Finally, there was an image of a golden sword, Excalibur. And an old man's peaceful voice:

"You were loved."

Abruptly the vision changed. A gasping Tom Riddle fell back onto the floor of the cave, staring incredulously at the crystal before him. Frantically, he tried again to pull it from where it was fastened into the rock, with no success. Multiple times, he tried to stare into it as intently as he had previously done, but the crystal now glowed dimly.

The young boy eventually stood back and scoffed, his arms folded in front of him as he surveyed the crystal. A smile grew across his features, and he laughed.

"Open up, you stupid rock. Show me more." His demand echoed through the cavern, but he received no reply other than the steady dripping of water from the roof.

Determined, Tom clambered back into the boat and was gone from the cave.

The vision changed for the final time, still showing the interior of the cave. This time, Tom stood upon the island in the underground lake, towering over two children.

"Come on!" He barked. "Tell me if you can see anything in the bloody crystal, or I'll throw you in the water again."

The two children cowered underneath the shadow he seemed to cast over them, despite his slight build. One was shivering, clothes and hair dripping with freezing water. They shook their heads and cried to him that they couldn't see anything– that it was just a crystal.

"Can we go Tom?"

"Please, it's dark in here!"

"Shut up! You’re no use!" Tom cried, clenching his fists. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere, and a harsh wind whipped up around the three children. The air let out a low moan as it rushed through the cavern, and whilst it nearly barrelled the two smaller children over, Tom remained unaffected.

When the wind had died down, Tom remained silent for a few moments longer, before he let out a long breath and whispered almost to himself:

"It was right. I am different. I am destined for higher things." He stood taller. Casting one final glance over his shoulder at the crystal, he grasped the two small children, hauling them up with a wry smile. "You know what I'll do if you tell anyone about this." He said menacingly.

The children nodded fearfully, and the vision faded for the last time.

Alone in his armchair on Pennethorne Road, Merlin shuddered. The crystal fell deftly from his hands but he barely noticed.

The candle on the table beside him flickered uncontrollably for a moment before snuffing out.

He'd wanted answers, and the turmoil he now felt was the price of getting them.

Chapter Text

17th December 1938...

Merlin hadn't celebrated Christmas for many years. He'd had no reason to. He travelled too frequently and impulsively, and raised as a pagan the celebration had no religious weight to him. Not to mention the lack of enthusiasm for even getting out of bed in the morning that had plagued him for the last few centuries.

That wasn't to say he didn't like the idea of Christmas– he had always loved gathering those he loved together. Feast days back in Camelot had warmed his soul; he loved the hustle and bustle and the pride he felt when he saw what a show Camelot could put on for its citizens and guests.

But those days were long past.

He couldn’t remember a time in the last five hundred years when he’d had friends or family to share a meal with, but Christmas didn’t halt with his melancholy. Year in, year out, it was everywhere. Seeing everyone else getting together only seemed to amplify Merlin's own sense of loneliness. It was a selfish perspective to have, but he’d found the ever increasing glamour and popularity of the holiday quite suffocating. Everywhere he was bombarded with tinsel and turkeys and shops lined with cards to send to loved ones. He generally didn't go out much at this time of year.

But things were different now. Where before he had shunned the idea, he now felt like a moth to a flame. Or a lit Christmas tree.

A few days ago he had popped to Diagon Alley, along with a couple of ordinary department stores, to buy a stack load of decorations. The lady on the till in Woolworth’s had to double take when he walked up to the counter, arms bursting.

After all, most people built up their stock of decor over a number of years, Merlin had started from absolute zero.

He was standing now in the living room on Pennethorne road, the musty smell of pine gently rolling round the room. Little dark green leaves were strewn about the place, all the way down the hall through which he had dragged the momentous tree that he could now step back and admire.

Thinking about it, the tree wasn't actually all that great. A little dry and brittle in places, and a little short and stubby all over, but it fit perfectly into the corner of the room as if it had sat there since the house was built. Merlin eyed the box of decorations he had bought, hoping the garish baubles and tinsel wouldn't clash too much with the rest of the room. He'd seen that people liked to put a star or an angel on the top, but he didn't think it mattered too much if there was nothing there. It was, after all, his first tree. They'd only arrived in England in the last century or so, but had caught on quickly and it now seemed everyone had one. It amused Merlin how some things could slip completely under his nose. The world was ever accelerating, and he could not always be expected to keep up.

He didn't have much time to dwell this morning, though, because he only had a few short hours before it was time to meet Tom at King's Cross. The boy had written him a handful of brief letters, leaving Merlin itching to know the details of his first term at Hogwarts.

He'd been sorted into Slytherin, as expected, and he'd told Merlin he and Asio had settled in well. The house had felt oddly empty without the boy, and despite Merlin having lived on his own for centuries, he missed company.

However, despite his excitement to spend Christmas with his adopted boy, the old warlock could not stop thinking about his vision. Whilst the crystal of Nehatid had shed light on many of Merlin's questions, it had created more than it had answered. Not to mention, it had shaken Merlin to his core. He still wasn't quite sure how to deal with it.

The reasons for the ways Tom acted went far deeper than Merlin had anticipated. It was no wonder the boy saw himself as superior to those around him when he had a vision, seemingly gifted from the old religion, driving his twisted ambitions. Tom truly believed he had a destiny, and he chased it hungrily.

That was what Merlin truly could not relate to. He'd spent the majority of his life running away from a destiny he'd felt was thrust upon him. He often wondered if someone else could have done a better job of things. After all, he was a simple village boy at root, and Tom Riddle was a descendant of nobility. But even Arthur, as a Pendragon Prince, had still felt the crushing weight of destiny, and thought often of escape.

The point was that Merlin didn't understand why Tom was clinging so tightly to a few terrifying premonitions. It didn't make sense to him, and that was worrying, because if he couldn't understand, he couldn't work out what Tom needed to hear to be coaxed from that path. He wanted Tom to realise that a life of simplicities could be a life of happiness.

The other thing that played on his mind was that he had seen himself in Tom's vision. His older self, though these days, he supposed it was more aptly described as his true self. Martha had told him that his eyes betrayed him, but had Tom recognised them? Or had the vision been too brief to study in detail?

Merlin’s dreams had been invaded by the other terrible face he had seen. The one that could barely be called human. The snake. What was this creature that lay in Tom's future? What dark sorcery would call it into being, and would Tom be fighting against or in service of its great army?

Merlin reminded himself constantly what his mentors had told him: that a vision was only one possible future. Things were never entirely as they seemed. Visions had driven him mad in the past, but this time he had to keep it together. He couldn't appear to be acting differently, or Tom would clock on. 

With immense difficulty, he would have to put his new anguish on the back-burner. It was business as usual. And he could start with trying to enjoy himself. The sparkly tinsel was just too much to resist.

24th December 1938...

Merlin had anticipated Tom would be a little cagey on the details of his first term at Hogwarts, but it nonetheless aggravated him that the boy had been home a whole week and he’d barely said a word.

Every time Merlin asked Tom a question more than: "So what are you studying in potions?" Tom would brush him off with comments about having too much homework, or just not being in the mood to talk.

Merlin was interested in how Tom was performing in lessons (which was very well by all accounts), but what he really wanted to hear about was life outside of academics. He was worried Tom might be too engrossed in his studies to develop the social skills he needed, or worse that he was being picked on for it. Having been top of the food chain at Wool’s, Merlin was worried Tom wouldn't know how to cope at a disadvantage– especially amongst other Slytherin first years, who’d already had a lifetime of experience in the magical world.

The old warlock had requested more detailed letters, on the threat that he would come to the school himself to get the gossip if Tom didn't write to him. 

“I don’t gossip,” Tom had said, and went upstairs for the rest of the night.

Tonight, Merlin had been trying to coax a little more conversation out of him, with mixed results. He waved a hand as he and Tom ducked into Pennethorne Road to escape the cold. The radio in the corner by the fireplace flickered to life, letting an unintelligible Christmas jingle saturate the room. After all, it was Christmas Eve, and they might as well keep in the spirit of things. He put a couple of logs on the hearth and lit them with a snap of his fingers.

Merlin slung his hat and scarf on a hook on the back of the door, watching as Tom paused beside him to do the same.

It was chilly out, with a light dusting of snow, but they'd gone for a walk about the neighbourhood to see all the lights. Couples had huddled together beside the big tree in the square, and children flocked to purchase cinnamon iced biscuits from a pop up stand, trying to catch tiny flakes of snow in their mouths as they waited. 

Whilst they shivered on a bench, a length apart from one another, Merlin had asked if Hogwarts had a big Christmas display. Tom, who was eager to one-up the muggle mediocrity around him, told Merlin animatedly about the Hogwarts feast, then frowned and stalled as soon as he realised he'd let such excitement seep into his voice.

Merlin smiled, getting the message loud and clear.

"I know this isn't all that much, and maybe you've seen grander… but it’s the first Christmas I've done in a while." 

"It's ok, Mr Thomas," Tom had replied, "just a bit cold and dark."

Merlin had the immediate instinct to close the awkward gap between them and put an arm round the boy to keep him warm. He watched the gathered parents tend to their little ones with flasks of hot cocoa, extra hats and scarves, warm embraces. A father was on his knees in the snow, consoling his young daughter who’d been hit by a snowball. He said a few magic words and the girl was giggling. He swept her up onto his shoulders. 

The scene was all it took to turn his old heart to mush. It wasn’t often he discovered something new about himself, but now he realised: he wanted that more than anything else in the world. 

The small gap between him and Tom became an unreachable distance. He would never be Tom’s father. Maybe that meant he could never be what Tom needed. What he needed.

"It's a bit formal, don't you think?" Merlin put a hand down between them.

"What?"

"Calling me Mr Thomas,"

"Oh."

"If you like, just ‘Mo’ is fine."

Tom stared out into the square and didn’t respond. Merlin withdrew his hands to his pockets, trying not to feel hurt. It was worth a shot; he didn’t like formalities much anyway. When the silence dragged on, he got up.

“You’re right, it’s too cold to be out. We’ll head back.” 

Tom shrugged and obliged, but Merlin saw that he had stopped shivering.

Now, back at Pennethorne Road, Merlin looked wearily across at the dinner dishes still on the side. Deciding he'd deal with them in the morning, he picked up a small paper bag from beside the bannister and sank it into his arm chair. One more shot.

He beckoned Tom (still a little rosy faced from the cold) to join him by the tree, taking out his wand and pointing it at the lights so they illuminated the room. He noted the flicker of jealousy in Tom's expression whenever Merlin used his magic. Unable to use his own wand outside of Hogwarts, Merlin imagined Tom was itching to grow up even quicker than before.

"So, how's it been so far?"

Tom perched himself on the foot-stall beside the fire, wearing a bored expression.

"I told you, it's been going fine. I'm not struggling–"

"Not Hogwarts," Merlin smiled, with a twinge of guilt as he realised quite how much he had been pestering Tom about school, "I meant Christmas ."

"A little surreal if I'm honest. Christmases at Wool's were always so... cold."

"I can understand that." Merlin replied earnestly.

"No, you can't." There was no real anger in the boy's tone, but a hint of sadness. As if deep down he wished Merlin could understand.

A long pause followed, where Tom stared intently into the fireplace, and Merlin found himself watching the little hanging elves flit about the Christmas tree, peering curiously at the stagnant looking muggle decorations interspersed between the animated wizarding ones. He contemplated whether or not to speak about his past, but decided it might finally be what Tom needed to hear.

"I had plenty of people to spend Christmas with when I was a child. The whole village would get together around a hearth and exchange simple gifts. No one could afford anything extravagant, but everyone always looked forward to it regardless. Supposedly it gave everyone a sense of community." Merlin paused, looking down at his lap a moment, aware of Tom's gaze drawn up at him.

"That sounds nice." The boy's comment was entirely empty. Perhaps he felt his guardian was just rubbing it in. Merlin explained himself further.

"I had my mother with me. She accepted my magic, but she never really understood what it meant to me. And my father wasn't there at all... so I always felt disconnected. The other children didn't want to play with me, because it was obvious their parents thought something was wrong with me. Toward the end of my childhood it was particularly bad. I stuck out like a sore thumb, especially when we all gathered together. Christmas always seemed to intensify the fact that I was at odds with everyone. When I was sent to– to Hogwarts,” he substituted, “it was the first time I'd ever really felt like I belonged. Those were the best Christmases I've ever had, and since I left it's never really been the same. I was back in a world where people didn’t understand me, and it was easy to become detached. This is the first proper Christmas I’ve had in a long time, so I know what you mean when you say it feels surreal.”

To a young Tom Riddle, it must sometimes feel like all he’d known was rejection, ostracisation and loneliness. Perhaps if he knew that Merlin too had felt like an outcast for so much of his life, Tom might realise he wasn't on his own. Or maybe it was just the old warlock who needed to feel like someone understood him.

"I always heard whisperings at Wool’s," Tom spoke quietly into the floor, and Merlin almost missed his reply. The boy's brow was furrowed, but he seemed so young and small in the shadow of the twinkling tree. "Everywhere I went with those children, in fact, I'd hear it said: Who's the odd boy? Why won't he take part? And they’d say– that’s Tom, he’s all messed up in the head. We don’t play with him.”

Merlin opened his mouth to reply but Tom stopped him.

"Don't try to comfort me, Mr Thomas. I know what they all meant. That something must be deeply wrong with me. They’ve got narrow little minds that don't understand how I am, but I'll show them, one day." He clenched his fists in his lap.

Merlin reached down and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I tried to hate them too, sometimes. But I never had it in me. Every time the village folk would stop and whisper as I walked past, or when their children would throw sticks when they saw me in the woods..." The warlock trailed off as he conjured an old face in his mind. "But there was Will," he said, "my only friend before I left home. When the other children teased me my mother would pray I ignore them and keep myself safe. Will thought I ought to prove them wrong. He was a bit mischievous, but we were kids so it was never serious. I think he hated my tormentors so much so I didn’t have to.”

"He was a muggle then, Will?"

"Yeah," Merlin replied, gazing into space, remembering with irony that Will had named himself a sorcerer to save Merlin’s neck, even on his deathbed. "Looking back, I made good on his word in the end. I proved my village was wrong about me, and no violence was needed. No revenge. I just went on and found somewhere I did belong.”

"Maybe you’re right, maybe you do get it." Tom murmured. Merlin sat back in an exaggerated expression of shock, and Tom rolled his eyes in response, but once they settled theyglittered with resolve. "One day I'm going to prove to them all how wrong they were to cast me out."

Merlin smiled, glad that Tom wanted to overcome people's perceptions of him.

"And you'll do it the right way?"

Tom didn't answer, staring blankly into the fire.

Merlin swallowed awkwardly.

“What do you think of the tree?” He tried to rekindle the conversation. “It’s the first one I’ve done.”

Tom turned to the stout, brittle and heavily spangled bush in the corner. “It’s nice,” he said very graciously, “but it ought to have a star. Even the tree at Wool’s had a star.”

Merlin was halfway through his apology for forgetting one when he was struck by an idea. He got up and began rifling haphazardly through the drawers in the cabinet Tom had almost destroyed during his outburst a few months ago. The boy watched him calmly from the carpet with mild inquiry, as if random outbursts like this had only ever been Merlin’s thing, and not also his. Merlin was nearly taken out by a pang of emotion everytime it dawned on him that Tom had begun to grow up already.

His hands struck what he was looking for in the bottom of the draw and he showed it to Tom triumphantly before wedging it, lopsided, amongst the spindles at the top of the tree. It was an ornament of a golden dragon, with steadily chipping paint. He’d picked it up at the market when he’d been feeling sentimental. If you caught it from a certain angle, it almost looked like Kilgharrah. 

“Tada! How’s that?” It earned a small laugh from Tom, maybe only for how pathetic it looked. 

“Much better. You’d give the ones in the Great Hall at Hogwarts a run for their money.” 

Merlin knew he was being teased, but he beamed anyway, because Tom had offered up another route in.

"Speaking of Hogwarts…" He began again, smiling mischievously and sitting forward in his chair, "How is it going at school? Do you think you've made a friend there?"

Tom rolled his eyes, any of his recent animation draining away. 

"I’m not really interested in being friends with anyone. Unfortunately, they’re all just as childish and directionless as the kids at Wool’s. I’m at Hogwarts to be a great wizard… it feels like everyone else is there to argue about girls and quidditch."

"It’s not a crime to be childish. You forget how young you still are, Tom. There’s time to study, and to relax." It was a small win, at least, that Tom had realised muggle and wizard children were so alike, but it was saddening that Tom’s determination to study prevented him from just having fun. Aside from his studies, Merlin suspected there was a far more deeply entrenched aspect of the boy’s character that prevented him from socialising. "It's such a shame you don't feel able to relax like you do when you're here."

Tom shrugged, but Merlin could tell his comment had touched a nerve. Having been so secretive and cold all his life, Tom seemed to struggle to admit how differently he could act around Merlin. Evidently, he had put his walls back up at Hogwarts, and it was taking some time to adjust to being in a safer space. But he was adjusting. In truth, Merlin didn't understand what it was about his company that could soften Tom, but it warmed his heart that he could.

"If I relax, then people will think they can undermine me." And there it was. Merlin was surprised to hear an admission.

"You think I'm going to undermine you?"

Tom glared at the fire. "I should hope not."

The pair sat in silence, as they often did, for a few long minutes. Eventually, Merlin decided to reach into the bag beside his arm chair and pull out a small, rectangular package. It was tied with a small bit of ribbon that rustled as he lifted it out, alerting Tom. Merlin passed the package into the boy's hands with a small smile, and when Tom seemed unsure Merlin gave an encouraging nod.

"It's for you."

"But, I didn't get you–"

"No matter. It's a gift enough that you're here. I've not had the pleasure of buying a Christmas present for years." Merlin replied, thinking back to the pompous boy who had scoffed on the threshold of Merlin's home, wondering why a man with a fortune would ever choose to live in such simplicity. It was true Tom harboured many kinds of arrogance, but he had begun to appreciate far more of the small things in life. He wanted to take nothing for granted in his quest for greatness, and while that was still a twisted outlook, it was a start.

Tom began to slowly unwrap the parcel, taking care not to tear the brown wrapping. Merlin watched him quietly, unable to help his widening smile as the boy (that he was fast coming to think of as his own) drew out a black, leather bound diary. He took a moment to stroke the cover; flick through the blank parchment pages and turn it over and over in his hands.

He looked up at Merlin with wide eyes.

"Thank you."

Before Merlin could reply Tom placed the diary on the floor beside him and gave him a small hug. It was the first open display of affection he had given, and the old warlock found himself choked up as he returned the gesture. He realised that the diary was probably the first Christmas present Tom had received in a long time. Perhaps ever.

"It means a lot to me that you like it," he eventually managed to say. Tom drew abruptly from the hug, as if he had suddenly remembered how cold and unfeeling he was supposed to pretend to be. Merlin was privileged to be able to see this side of Tom Riddle; there were few who ever would. 

"It's getting late, you should get some sleep. But I promise we'll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and see some more impressive festivities.”

"Okay," Tom replied, turning to head up the stairs. He hesitated a moment. "Goodnight, Mo.” He said, and then was gone.

Merlin sank down in front of the glowing hearth. It was a Christmas miracle.

31st December 1938...

Tom was angry.

He was often angry. Mo would tell him it was no use letting things you couldn't control make you angry, but Tom begged to differ. He was angry and he was determined to be able to control what it was that was making his blood boil every time he thought of it.

Mo was lying to him. And Mo had always, and would continue to lie to him day-in, day-out. What was worse, the strange man that Tom lived with seemed often completely aware that Tom knew he was lying. He could open up about his childhood all he liked, but it didn't stop the fact that Tom had virtually no idea who this man who had adopted him truly was. There were so many loose threads in his vague tales and it made Tom's head ache trying to keep track of all his obvious slips.

He said he had grown up rural and fatherless, but supposedly his father had founded an orphanage and left it to him. He was vague about some washed-up research career, and yet his wandless use of magic (which Tom had recently learnt was not normal) indicated he was immensely skilled. And there was something less tangible about him– an old sadness that he couldn’t hide. Tom would catch him staring into the middle distance with a horrible look, and other far older and sader looking men were inexplicably drawn to him, like Ollivander… and probably professor Dumbledore if they ever met.

He wanted– no– expected Tom to trust him and yet he gave nothing of the sort in return. Tom had never really believed in trust. And he truly trusted no one. It just wasn't worth it when no one dared to trust him with anything. One of the most frustrating things about Mo was that he made these internal rules very difficult to stand by. 

After all, he was accustomed to being the secret keeper, and not the one in the dark. Knowledge was power over people, and gaining the trust of his peers at Hogwarts had opened a great many doors. He held their secrets, so he had the ability to bend them.

The power was a nice one to have. It had helped him feel more comfortable in the new environment of a wizarding school. He had often thought about what he could use it for, but as of yet something seemed to be holding him back. He could get his (albeit stupid) classmates to do whatever he wanted... but he hadn't. He struggled to understand what it was that was keeping him from exercising his power, but it just felt like the wrong thing to do.

He'd often scolded himself for his reluctance. This sort of ridiculous moral high-ground was Mo's thing, not his. He'd tried to tell himself he wasn't weak like his guardian, who was so hell-bent on being nice all the time instead of achieving his goals. It frustrated Tom how much Mo jeopardised himself to be so pleasant when his life could be so much easier.

And yet still, Tom had not broken the trust that his peers had placed in him. They could finish his muggle studies homework for him whilst he read about more interesting things; they could save his favourite desk in classrooms and let him have all the peace and quiet he desired in the dormitory, if he so much as whispered that he'd let out their secrets. Frustratingly, he made his life harder in his unfathomable reluctance to do so.

Infuriatingly, he felt like Mo.

He'd told his fellow Slytherins he was from a pure-blood line to keep them happy; he'd said they could trust him; he'd reassured them when they struggled with the curriculum that they would improve. He'd lied to them all to make them happy. For their own good. And that was entirely foreign to him.

Religiously, he told himself that what Mo lied about was different. Mo wasn't lying to a bunch of clueless children, Mo was lying to him .

He must know that he's not making me happy by lying to me.

What made Tom happy was knowledge. What made Tom happy was feeling in control, and he felt neither of those things around Mo.

Alone in his bedroom on Pennethorne Road, Tom felt his frustration rise. At Mo, at himself, at the whole world. The feeling was somewhat a comfort to him. Anger hid pain, it hid betrayal. Though he would never admit it, Tom felt very betrayed. From Martha and Mo, from the children at the orphanage and from his family who were supposed to care for him. And of all the things he was angry at, perhaps the strongest of his frustrations was directed at himself. For letting it happen.

The young Riddle felt his magic begin to rise up with his emotions, as it still sometimes did.

Stilling himself, he took in a few deep breaths, moving his focus from his anger to the swelling, tingling feeling within him. Gradually, he felt the storm retreat as he breathed, until he was calm again.

"One day." He whispered gently to himself, one day no one would ever think to undermine or lie to him again.

He often wondered why he bothered with Mo's exercises still. He'd seen the panic in his eyes when he'd had the outburst a few months ago– if Tom was angry at the man he should just let it all out and get what he wanted. Answers. But again, frustratingly, he didn't. Mo was still the only person Tom had ever thought somewhat understood him, and he felt that wasn't the right way to react. The greatest wizards did not have 'outbursts', instead they were always cool and calm and in control.

He didn't know why, but he wanted Mo, and everyone, to see he could be like that.

If he was destined to be a great wizard, as the vision had said, he had to act like one. From what he had read at Hogwarts, Merlin– the greatest wizard to ever live– had rarely been seen to lose his temper. He was reserved in displays of his power, and modest. Perhaps that was what made him so impressive to history. In truth, the man who could well be a myth fascinated Tom, and he was proud to be a part of his noble house.

Maybe one day he could be like him, or better.

But Mo? No, he didn't want to be like Mo.

Come January, he'd go back to Hogwarts with a single focus. No more getting distracted by morals and peers. His guardian’s pestering about friendships had made him resolved about quite the opposite– that he had been sucked into them too much already. Tom was there to be the best. And he certainly didn't have time to dwell on silly enigmas like what his guardian was hiding, no matter how much it might anger him.

If he at least decided that he didn’t care what Mo was hiding, then he could pretend he had the power back. But if an opportunity arose to put some pressure on the strange man, he wouldn’t say Mo didn’t deserve it.

"Tom!" A muffled call came from downstairs. "Breakfast is on the table!"

Tom sighed. He checked the calendar tacked to the wall beside his bed, to confirm the unfortunate event and then he reluctantly resigned himself to his birthday.

Merlin hadn't laid on the most extravagant breakfast. He knew Tom preferred he didn’t make a ruckus of special occassions. Things like birthdays seemed trivial to the young boy, but Merlin still wanted to make an enjoyable day of it. It upset Merlin that Tom had tried to ignore all mentions of the day, because it reminded him of the way he tried to forget each of his own passing years. A child shouldn't have to think like that.

A soft short hoot from Asio accompanied Tom's entrance and Merlin ushered him with a beam to his seat at the table. Tom remained expressionless as Merlin brought over two plates stacked with a bit of French toast, syrup and cooked apples and blackberries.

"You got a letter." Merlin said, picking up his cutlery and immediately diving into his own plate. Tom also began to eat, but his expression remained typically indifferent. He raised his eyebrows when Merlin spoke.

"What for?"

"You'll have to open it." Merlin replied, taking out the small brown envelope and sliding it across the table, trying to hide his own intrigue.

Methodically, Tom slit the envelope open and pulled out a card with a moving image of a wizarding firework that exploded into the shimmery letters of ' Happy Birthday !' Tom paid very little attention to the outside of the card, reading the contents thoroughly. When he closed the card and didn't speak, Merlin piped up.

"Who was it from?"

"Avery," Tom replied, with little intention to continue.

Merlin raised his eyebrows at the boy, pausing from his breakfast in a sign that he wanted more information. Tom swallowed a mouthful and added quickly:

"A harmless idiot. Sits with me in history of magic."

"Ah," Merlin replied, a small smile playing on his lips, "an acquaintance of yours? You failed to mention if you'd made any friends."

Tom sucked in a tired breath. "I wouldn't say friends... but I'm not on my own all the time at school, if that's what you want to hear."

"I want to hear the truth," Merlin replied, forehead creased in sincerity. The Riddle boy only scoffed in response, but didn't reply.

Merlin allowed the silence to continue as they finished their breakfast. Tom ate everything, but Merlin could tell he was deliberately ignoring his own enjoyment of it. He was stubborn sometimes.

Merlin cleared the plates, insisting that Tom needn't help out with chores today, and popped the moving card up on the mantelpiece scanning the albeit standard birthday message left inside. Finally, he returned to the table.

"How often do you just tell me what I want to hear?" The warlock said plainly, resting his elbows on the table as he addressed Tom. He'd felt that familiar flutter of panic at Tom's earlier comment, and his new attitude after discovering the boy's vision was to leave nothing unaddressed.

Tom shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant, but betraying the slightest stiffness, that would be noticeable to no one but Merlin.

"You worry a lot. I know you do. There's no need." The boy said.

Merlin frowned down the table. After their lovely few days over Christmas, Merlin noticed the shift in mood more than ever from Tom. He had known this day would probably stir up some unwelcome memories, and he also realised that the boy was probably impatient to get back to Hogwarts now that the holidays were drawing to a close. Despite still believing that the school was the best place for him, he didn't really want to let Tom go. Merlin knew the boy loved using magic, and felt at home there with his studies, but he also wanted him to feel comfortable at home with Merlin, too. With painful irony, he didn't want lies to come between them.

"I just don't want you to feel like you have to accommodate me like that." Merlin said. "You do it a lot, don't you?" He thought back to the outburst Tom had had all those months ago. The boy had directed the focus away from the situation when he'd realised Merlin was getting flustered. Merlin had been so paranoid that Tom was hiding things from him by lying, that he had forgotten to consider that maybe Tom was so secretive because he didn't want to worry Merlin. Martha would tell him it was unwise to assume the boy's motives were ever good natured if he wanted to stay alert, but Merlin's heart couldn't help warming to the idea. Perhaps Tom lied to keep him happy.

Tom shrugged again.

"That night," Merlin said, sitting back in his chair and smiling slightly as he entertained the thought, "you could easily have continued to be angry at me, but you didn't."

Tom's expression shifted in recognition of what Merlin was referring to. It was the first time since the outburst that they had directly discussed it. Merlin had finally found something Tom wanted to talk about.

"You seemed awkward about it, so I changed the subject," he said, trying to appear nonchalant.

"Why?" Merlin asked.

"Because I know what you did for me."

The warlock retracted his elbows from the table, heart suddenly pounding.

"You shielded me from all the glass," Tom continued, "it was only fair to be nice about it."

Merlin remembered. At the last second he'd shielded Tom from the blast. Trust the boy to notice he'd received no cuts or scratches like Merlin had.

"I'm glad some of my lessons have sunk in." He let out a chuckle, relief flooding his system.

"Mhm." Tom hummed, no evidence of lightheartedness in his own tone. "It's strange. Considering your wand was in your pocket ."

The relief vanished, leaving him in the icy grip of dread. 

Of course. Tom had wanted to talk about this because he had questions of his own. Merlin's rational mind immediately crushed all the things his heart had hoped for. Tom sought only his own answers, and he noticed everything. He lied for himself, not for Merlin. He was foolish to think otherwise.

The old warlock ran a hand across his chin as he thought of how to respond. If Tom was revealing that he knew full well about the wandless magic, that meant he wanted the truth. Automatically, he started to brainstorm cover ups, and all the while Tom stared evenly across at him, the tiniest hint of that cold, satisfied smile playing on his lips. It made Merlin gulp.

Perhaps , a small voice told him, it would be best to tell him some of the truth for once. Perhaps it would be better than him working it out for himself down the line.

Merlin took a deep breath, hiding the fear from his face as he was now so accustomed to doing.

"I was trying to be subtle." He joked, but felt little amusement.

"Very few wizards can do wandless magic, Mo." Tom said accusingly, but Merlin noted how he still called Merlin 'Mo', instead of the usual formality he resorted to when they had an argument. He wanted to make Merlin feel comfortable to open up to him.

"Did you read that?" Merlin asked, trying to buy time as his mind whirred with what he should and shouldn't give away.

"No. Dumbledore told me, because I asked him when we'd be able to learn it. He didn't believe me when I said you could probably do it all the time." Tom's face was stony at the mention of the professor.

"You told your professor about it?" Merlin spoke with a noticeably worried tone. The last thing he wanted was to be on the wizarding radar– particularly with a sorcerer like Albus Dumbledore. Tom seemed intrigued by his distress.

"Why, is that a problem?"

"No, probably not." Merlin replied, forcing himself to calm. Tom was right, Dumbledore probably didn't believe him. "I guess I should explain."

"Yes." Tom glared across the table at Merlin. The warlock forced himself not to shrink under the now twelve-year-old’s gaze.

"I'm not like other wizards. I'm not sure why, and it's not a question I like to ask myself. As you've probably gathered, in my day-to-day life I'm a bit of a recluse. I don't like to draw attention to myself... I don't want to be put on an unnecessary pedestal." Merlin began, hoping the sincerity of what he said would come across. "I can do little tricks of wandless magic–only here and there. Sometimes I can perform bigger spells, but only under a lot of emotion– a little bit like how your magic used to act when you were angry. Everyone's magic is different, and I have come to discover that mine just interacts with the world more easily than others without a wand."

Tom nodded slowly, meeting Merlin’s reluctant eyes. "I knew you were different. You could be respected, revered ."

"But I don't want to be." Merlin said quietly, a pained expression written across his face. "Yes, I might have talents above the ordinary wizard, but I don't think that means I'm not entitled to my own private life. Power shouldn't automatically put you in a position over others. Wisdom, leadership, ambition, morality– those are the things that should.

"Just as I don't believe wizards should hold any power over muggles, I don't think I should have any power over wizards just because I can get cups out of a cupboard without my wand. I've supported some incredible people in my life, none of them more skilled in magic than me, but all of them better qualified to lead.

"I'm sorry to have kept this from you Tom, but in this world, lying and hiding are the most successful ways for me to keep myself from anyone's expectations of me. And I'm often ashamed."

Merlin was silent for a long time after that. And he stared at his hands, and he thought of Arthur. Arthur, who had been a far better king than his father despite being younger and less experienced. Arthur, who had been a far better leader than Morgana, despite having no magic and trusting often blindly.

He thought of himself, who had grown so used to lying that it became easier than the truth. After Arthur's death, Guinevere hadn't asked him to step up, knowing he was in no state to do so. Others had. They came to him, hoping that the man they had heard was the greatest sorcerer to walk the Earth– who’d defeated whole armies at Camlann– would lead them into a time of peace. He often wondered if he could have done it. If he should’ve. He wasn't a leader, he never would be. Perhaps he blamed himself for the fall of old magic from the land, perhaps he could have stopped it. But the truth was, he had retreated away into lies, so he wouldn't be faced with such questions again.

He thought of Tom, who, unlike Merlin, strived for greatness above all. He was an exceptional child, and Merlin would always worry how on earth such a strong but equally troubled soul would find a good place in the world.

"Would you support me?" Tom said after a long time. His tone was different; he spoke not with ambition or his usual iciness, but with hope, like a child seeking his guardian's approval. Like he wanted Merlin to be proud of him.

"Perhaps." The warlock replied. "Happy Birthday."

Chapter Text

18th November 1939...

Merlin sat at his desk in his study, peering between the piles of unsorted books to read the open page in front of him. He rarely read these kinds of runes anymore, and it took him a few pages to get back into it.

A small frown etched concentration into his face as he took a few notes on the parchment resting on his knee.

The summer had been short-lived, and the year had drawn in again rapidly. He lit the candles a little earlier each night, and sat a little longer in the dark with a thousand years of memories.

Now he wasn't travelling so much, Merlin spent the spaces in between (as he had named the weeks when Tom was at school) delving further into his research. As he searched for the right books, he'd begun to sift through the contents of his study. This was where the problem lay, and probably why he'd made so little progress finding out about the crystal.

That, and the fact that the old religion tended to write its own rules, and there was possibly no explanation for Tom's vision at all. He'd tried to ignore this scenario, but the many months had slipped by with little progress.

Mainly, Merlin kept stumbling across distractions. His old spellbook was always out and about somewhere to remind him of all the days he'd spent in Camelot, stealing away from his chores to study every word. He'd also found a Sidhe staff stuffed behind a shelf the other day, along with several other trophies of his secret attempts to save his king's life. Relics of Arthur and of his past were everywhere in here. He wondered why he bothered to keep them; couldn't imagine throwing them away.

Some objects brought back happier memories than others: like a set of dice he'd stolen from the many nights of gambling down at the tavern, or a small wooden dragon that had almost toppled out of a chest in the corner, and made Merlin shed a tear remembering his final evening with his father. Everything in this stuffy old room was connected to those dear, dead days beyond recall.*

And now the Crystal of Nehatid had its own home up on the side of the desk. It no longer beckoned Merlin to peer within, but, as if they were locked in awkward conversation, he avoided direct eye-contact.

In the time since her revelation, Merlin had also started fortnightly meetings with Martha at Pennethorne Road. It had begun with Merlin wanting to continue to support her all he could through her discovery of the magical world, and also to discuss Tom.

Despite their blossoming friendship, the young Riddle boy was almost always the main topic of conversation. Everything seemed to wind back to him. Martha found Merlin's progress fascinating, and though they had both shared some dark afternoons wondering about how far he still had to go, the orphanage matron would always mention Merlin's unique effect on the boy.

"We're lucky you of all people found him. I don't think there's another person who can connect with that child like you can, Mortimer," she'd once said. Merlin found it both flattering and reassuring that she thought so. If there was one woman he could trust to be frank with him, it was Martha.

Despite her limited knowledge of beyond the muggle world, he admired her insight. Martha had a logical approach to problems that allowed her to make surprising sense of things she didn't yet understand. And Merlin needed that sometimes. He really felt as though, for the first time in centuries, he had made a true friend. That fact worried him as much as it was a welcome comfort, because whilst he could share with Martha, the invisible elephant in the room still remained. That this partnership was not permanent.

Merlin was... well, Merlin. And for whatever reason that meant he was eternal. Perhaps it was a millennium-old habit that kept him from telling her more about himself, or maybe it was the fact that he cherished the simplicity of their relationship too much. Part of him didn't want to burden her with anything more than he already had... and part of him just didn't like to talk about his immortality at all. Sometimes, if he tried hard enough, he could almost forget about the whole thing...

The other dilemma he hadn't told Martha about was the vision. She'd only tentatively asked once, and not again in the year since. Merlin was grateful that she understood he needed more time. Even now, so long after, he still wasn't sure what he wanted to do with the knowledge from the crystal. Only that he had it, and he didn't yet understand it. So far nothing more from the vision had come to pass, but all the while Tom remained so brilliant and so volatile, the future waited with baited breath to strike.

Acquiring a pensive would surely be a good place to start unpicking it all, but Merlin hadn't owned one in all his years of wandering. Watching back memories of the past had never appealed to him much before. And the fact remained: searching for a pensive was too much of an attention-drawing activity in the wizarding world, and Merlin dared not turn to the crystals again–they were far too unpredictable.

So he had resolved himself to research.

He could only coop himself up in his study and meet with Martha during term-time though. If Tom were to find out about how much he shared and discussed with the orphanage head... he'd certainly feel betrayed. And it made Merlin feel a little guilty to think about it.

He was living two lives again. He was good at that.

Despite his meandering research and weekly meetings, Merlin lived for the moments when Tom returned home.

The old warlock could not believe the time that had passed since he had first seen the young boy off to Hogwarts, waving frantically on the platform, as if it had been a final goodbye. It never really got any easier to watch the train pull out from platform 9 and 3/4, but Merlin was experienced with it now.

Tom had nestled further and further into life on Pennethorne Road. When he allowed himself to forget the frustration of being unable to practise magic, he clearly enjoyed the space that Merlin created for him outside of school. He sunk into his armchair most evenings, deposited himself across the dining table to do his homework, left mugs and plates about his room.

He blew the dust from Merlin's lonely house and made himself known. It was a good feeling, to have the house lived in again, and for Tom to be so comfortable in it.

But as he grew calmer and his magic settled down, he was more difficult to read. Merlin knew his tells: the things he enjoyed and the things to avoid, when to pester and when to back down… but he could never truly know how the boy felt these days unless he shared it. It required a level of trust on Merlin's end that he hoped went both ways.

In September, Tom had begun his second year, after a shining set of exam results at the beginning of the summer. Merlin had never worried about or doubted Tom's academic ability.

They had begun to discuss Tom's possible future. Though it seemed premature, whenever the boy returned home he had a new career that he thought could use his talents. Merlin was happy to entertain the ideas of aurors and ministers–it could give Tom a path to channel his ambition. Though he might moan about its ridiculous intricacies now, Merlin thought the Riddle boy would make a powerful politician.

Perhaps the best use of his talents and want for authority, Merlin had speculated, would be teaching. He certainly wasn't ready yet, and would probably scoff at the idea, but in a perfect world Merlin hoped Tom would be able to pass on his skills and knowledge to others. That was providing, of course, that Merlin's care was successful in changing his attitudes.

Tom was far better now with fellow wizards, but Merlin's biggest challenge whenever the boy returned home was keeping him engaged in the muggle world. No matter where they went, Tom just seemed to lack any interest in things that weren't magical. They'd only had a handful of incidents where the boy had been outright rude to someone, but his temper often ran short.

A cutting jibe here, a whispered comment there... it never seemed to end.

But increasingly, these moments of cruelty were interspersed with a growing tolerance–perhaps even acceptance–of the world around him. It was the simple shift in perspective from Tom's inward and isolated thoughts only of himself, to considering the effect he had on others.

"Is it worth it?" Merlin would often coach him. "To dislike others in such a way, when really they've got no bearing on your life?"

Sometimes Tom would ignore or openly reject his words, but Merlin made a point of not giving in. Every snide comment from the boy was addressed, and perhaps it was smothering, but every so often Tom would nod in agreement.

"Perhaps you're right."

And in those moments, slowly but surely, he felt he was getting there.

15th January 1940...

It was early evening at Hogwarts, but Tom Riddle wasn't hungry. He'd often skip dinner when he had other things on his mind, and he sat now in the empty dormitory, with a book in his hands. He took in a sharp breath as he placed the leather-bound tomb on his lap. Without its obvious preservation charms, it was so ancient that he felt it might flake away in his hands if he held it too long. He didn't dare open it just yet, after all it had taken to get hold of the thing.

He'd strolled into the library yesterday morning without really thinking. He would often find his feet carrying him there when he wasn't in lessons, he couldn't help but be drawn to the place.

He nodded once to the librarian as he passed her, before continuing to peer up at the rows and rows of books that enveloped him. He had devoured the handful of reads Mo had given him long ago, and whilst they had once been a gateway into the wizarding world, they seemed elementary now in comparison. Hogwarts library was breathtaking, (and Tom prided himself on being moved in such a way by few things) that such a resource existed at his complete disposal was incredible to him.

Well, almost. The restricted section had yet to welcome him in.

He'd asked some of the faculty about it before, trying to broach the subject with a request for wider reading. However, as soon as they cottoned on to the kind of permission he was asking for, they would dismiss him.

"Second years should really be focusing on their core studies, Tom."

"There's no need for such books, you can find plenty of information in the rest of the library."

Professor Dumbledore had just smiled, and shaken his head sadly at the request.

It was patronising.

They didn't understand that the rest of the library Tom could delve into whenever he liked. The restricted section withheld its knowledge, and that is exactly what drew Tom in. Maybe some students wouldn't be able to handle themselves around such potentially dark ideas, but Tom knew he was capable. The more he knew about all kinds of magic, the better he could master his own. The sooner he could earn the respect he was destined to have.

He hovered beside the roped off section of the library as he passed, peering beadily over at the dust caked volumes. He could almost hear them whispering their secrets to him. If he could only get a little closer...

The Riddle boy stalled himself abruptly. He wouldn't dare break in. That was the sort of reckless plight only a Gryffindor would undertake. Tom had far more respect for the rules than they did. They were put in place for a reason and, for now, he would follow them.

Tom let a delicate finger trace across a hundred spines as he slowly traversed a shelf at eye level. He studied each title carefully, waiting for something to particularly peak his interest.

His first year in the library had albeit been a frantic delve into every book he set his eyes on. Tom had sat on the moth-eaten chair in the back recess of the room, with a stack of books as high as himself, trying to soak up everything he could.

Now he took far more care deciding what to read. He was more controlled. He liked to think he'd learnt patience, and that he could play the long game, but perhaps it was just an excuse for the fact that he still felt like he hadn't done anything.

In truth, he was tired of waiting. If he could just have access to the restricted section... maybe it would have more details about his destiny. He deserved the knowledge in those books, he knew it, but he had yet to find a way to them.

Tom had a plan. Of course he had a plan. And every time he passed the roped off section he was fuelled with motivation to finally put it into action. But then he would head back to the common room and spend an evening with his mindless peers and the idea would just... fizzle out.

Out of sight from the rest of the library the Riddle boy pounded a fist into a hard oak shelf. He was too weak. Mo had turned him soft. He could tell himself all he liked that he was waiting for a more cunning idea to cross his mind, but the truth always remained. He couldn't do it.

His classmates were painfully aggravating at times. They could barely shut their mouths about their rich family lines and yet none of the superiority they claimed to have shone through in their studies. Tom knew virtually nothing of his own heritage–that it had been great, he was certain–but he outshone his peers in all aspects of magic. He couldn't act the fool, like Mo did, and hide his power. Tom felt like he was born to do magic, like he might as well die without it.

He pitied his classmates. For being so much simpler than he was. They didn't have such a future to reach for, they couldn't understand. But despite how mundane they could be, he didn't feel comfortable throwing them under a bus to reach his goal. They didn't deserve it.

After all, they'd shown him some respect and sensitivity when he needed it. They assumed if he was pure-blooded, he'd been born out of wedlock, through some affair that was long swept under the rug. Tom quickly realised his unspoken circumstances were not unheard of amongst the old families. They didn't pry into his history, and they didn't judge him for not growing up in the magical world. Instead, they were shocked that he'd endured being raised around "common" folk, and acted as if he should've been a part of their world all along. When Lestrange boasted about his legions of house elves and sweeping lawns, it was as he insisted that Tom come to stay sometime.

They made him feel like he was deserving of a grand life. And in the end that only fueled his rage against those who would deny him. He daren't admit his simple life with Mo on Pennethorne Road. He daren't admit, even to himself, the confusing and enraging truth of how much he liked it there.

He had no doubts about his entitlement to his great destiny, but for the first time in his life he was plagued by whether or not he wanted it.

Tom took a few deep, calming breaths. He'd had enough of Mo's shadow conscience following him wherever he went. He'd had enough of other people's influences clouding his ambitions. He was not the boy he had been at Wool's anymore, but that didn't mean he couldn't be ruthless. Mo couldn't turn him soft that easily.

It was time to put his plan into action.

It had been relatively easy, really. Just a whisper here and there.

Avery would do it, Tom had known he would. No one would suspect the boy of caving so easily into the favour, but Tom had known better.

One quiet threat that he would tell the whole Slytherin common room that Avery had a crush on Myrtle Warren, was enough to send the boy practically running to the library in the dead of night. It was ridiculous. It was ingenious.

Ten minutes later, Tom had followed, slipping between the patrolling professors with ease. He had met Avery at the library entrance.

"You get it?" Tom whispered.

"Y-yeah. Thick one, about Hogwarts and the founders, or something." The slight boy withdrew the tomb from his robes, Tom took it and quickly stowed it beneath his.

"You put the decoy in?"

"I did, don't worry."

"No alarms go off?"

"No, none."

Tom paused for a second in thought. If there had been no alarms so far then...

"One more favour."

"But I've–"

"You've not got a choice. And if you breathe a single word of this..." Tom drew up to his full height, which was shorter than the wiry boy, but Avery trembled anyway, nodding.

"Go back in there, pick up another book for yourself. No use you coming here and doing this for me without getting anything out of it." Tom's voice was silky and genuine, but he still gripped Avery with an unspoken menace.

The boy nodded after a moment's hesitation. "Good idea." He turned to go back inside the library but Tom stalled him for a final time.

"Open it up to check there's nothing nasty in there first. I've heard some of the books bite." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder in earnest. "You're a real friend, Avery, thank you."

Moments later, when the book Avery had picked let out a shrill scream, Tom listened to its far off echoing down the halls with a smile. He was long gone.

Avery had received a week's detention, and fifty points from Slytherin. It was up to him whether that had been worth keeping his secret. It was lose-lose as far as Tom could see. The Riddle boy had stowed his tomb away in his suitcase until the events had blown over. In the commotion of finding a student in the restricted section at night, the fact that one of the books had been swapped for a harmless other had gone unnoticed.

His classmate hadn't said a word to him since last night, but Tom had observed his fearful glances. He pictured his expression again now: the glassy eyes and tiny tremble in the boy's jaw. It reminded him of the kids at Wool's.

Before, in a way, he had enjoyed it. The way he could make the children look at him like that; the way he could control them. Later, after his vision, their fear had suited him. It meant they left him alone to his studies. To his thoughts.

He knew the dynamic in Slytherin was different. People were drawn to fear, they had a certain respect for it. He'd been at Hogwarts long enough to know that those who could be feared could lead. Avery would come back to him soon. He knew it. Fear was an easy way to gain respect. Those who led by fear were the weakest, Mo had once said.

In the orphanage, Tom had led this way. It used to give him a rush. It still did in the moment, but the feeling didn't last anymore. Every time he did something like this; every time he tried to be that boy he was at Wool's... he felt a strange frustration at himself afterwards. As if that rush of power represented only a loss of control, and held its own weakness. As if he felt guilty.

Tom had become an ever-churning miasma of weakness and rage. It was exhausting. He fumed as he stood by, not taking advantage of the people at his disposal. But at the same time, he wasn't comfortable with himself any more when he did such things. The moral confusion drove him insane. He sometimes wondered what his purpose even was anymore.

And then he would remember the vision. And he would remember Mo. No matter how much his guardian frustrated him, he wanted to show the man how great he could become, either out of spite or genuine need for something he had been missing all his life. The vision served as evidence that he would make true on his promise.

He returned his attention to the book in front of him. What was done was done. Tom drew out his wand and placed it on the spine of the great volume. The title read: Hogwarts: the mysteries of the birthplace of modern magic.

"Confundo," he whispered, and then, "silencio."

Tom prised open the book, which, convinced it was still back on its shelf in the library, soundlessly offered up its knowledge. He flicked through to a random page where the embellished, handwritten title: Salazar Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets beckoned him in.

2nd February 1940...

The doorbell of the house on Pennethorne Road rang softly.

Merlin looked up from the local muggle newspaper, puzzled. The postman had already been, and he usually met with Martha on Sundays. He wasn't expecting anyone.

With a little caution, he went to the front door.

The man that faced him on the threshold was well into his middle ages, and wore a long, grey overcoat with a brown cap. The muted tones meant the man's eyes, startlingly blue, struck out from him. They twinkled confidently as they met Merlin's gaze.

Avoiding the unsettling intensity of his eye contact, Merlin panned downwards. He could see the collar of the man's wizarding robes under his coat and the end of a wand sticking out of his pocket, but Merlin hardly needed this as a sign he was a wizard; he carried an air of significant magic.

Whilst Tom's power was raw and would often crackle around him, the figure on the doorstep possessed the humming vibrations of a wizard whose skills were honed and mastered.

Merlin knew the man. He'd seen his face in the papers. It was Albus Dumbledore.

The Hogwarts professor was no doubt one of Tom's current teachers. Until now he had never met the man, but Merlin knew the reverence with which he was always spoken of. People had a lot of time for his wisdom and his skill, and with all the pressure on him to take on Grindewald, the press often reported on what he was up to.

"Can I help you?" Merlin asked with a signature smile, acting the fool.

"Mr Thomas, so glad we could finally meet." Dumbledore stole his hand from his side and shook it vigorously. Then he strode with admirable conviction into Merlin's home. Perplexed and a little dumbfounded, Merlin allowed him to hang up his coat and followed the professor down his own hallway.

For a man under so much strain, Merlin thought as he showed Dumbledore to a seat beside the fireplace, he certainly seemed at ease.

The old warlock took out his wand and pretended to set it about the kitchen, making a second cup of tea for his guest, whose twinkling eyes he could sense taking in the room behind him.

From the revered name of Albus Dumbledore, this was not what he had expected. He had no idea what the man was here for, but he could hazard a guess. Despite his inviting air, Merlin remained on edge.

What had Tom done?

"Just putting the kettle on."

Five minutes later, Merlin sat across from the professor, waiting for him to speak. Dumbledore took a drag from his cup, drawing out the slurping sound as if he relished the awkwardness. As if, privately, he found it incredibly amusing.

Finally, he spoke.

"Forgive my lack of introduction. I am Albus Dumbledore, a professor at Hogwarts school where your ward is a student." Merlin nodded, affirming that he knew this already. Dumbledore went on. "I am right in saying you took custody of Tom Riddle in May of 1938?"

"Yes, that's correct. What of it?" Merlin replied, itching to discover the meaning of Dumbledore's call. He couldn't help the defensiveness. Tom was his responsibility, and with that task a paternal feeling had dawned in him. He was aware that others didn't get to see the side of Tom that blossomed in the safe space he provided. Dumbledore would likely view the boy as cold and unfeeling; the mask Tom wore only to protect himself. It was understandable, but Merlin still felt protective when faced with those who would call Tom a monster.

"Do you travel much?"

The seemingly irrelevant question caught him off guard. Dumbledore was trying to get at something, so the warlock complied.

"I used to, but not now I've got Tom." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

Dumbledore took another long sip from his mug, unbothered by Merlin's expectant gaze.

"You're an interesting man. There's very few records of you." The professor continued, ignoring Merlin's question. The man's nonchalance was making Merlin restless.

"There's not much to tell." He clipped. He'd become good at dodging these kinds of comments, but Albus Dumbledore had moved on to yet another topic.

"Might I say you've got a lovely living area," he said, looking about himself with a small smile. Still he ignored Merlin's ever narrowing eyes. "I would love to know where you got that painting in the hall–"

"Why are you here, professor?" Merlin cut him off, which probably wasn't something people did to Dumbledore often. "I'm assuming you want to talk about Tom, not compliment the furniture."

The interjection seemed to pleasantly surprise Merlin's unwelcome guest. He nodded in concession, as if the silly game he'd been playing was finally up.

"I am here because of Master Riddle, but it's you I wanted to meet. I felt I should touch base, given the circumstances."

"What circumstances?"

This time Dumbledore ploughed on through Merlin's interruption. "You interest me, Mr Thomas. I hardly thought you would be an ordinary man: you have a lovely home but you rarely seem to live in it. You own an orphanage, but besides basic documentation, there's little record that you exist. One doesn't prop up an orphanage on his salary as a "researcher" and there's curiously no record of your Hogwarts attendance... This is all on top of the most peculiar fact: that you've adopted Tom Riddle. Forgive me, I just had to see you for myself."

"I was largely homeschooled," Merlin replied, unsure of what to make of the whole exchange, "but Tom is not aware of that. I've spent most of my life outside of wizarding society. I do my charitable work, I mind my business. I'm not surprised there's little record of me in the magical world."

Dumbledore nodded slowly as the warlock spoke, but was otherwise unreadable. Merlin wasn't sure the professor believed a word he'd said, but he felt a need to defend himself.

"I might keep some things about my past from Tom, but I assure you, my care for him is genuine."

"I'm glad to hear that. I really am. You know, I think we could be of real help to one another."

Merlin raised his eyebrows.

"Enlighten me."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"I was eager to follow Tom's progress from the moment he came into my class," he said. "He is a real prodigy. But perhaps you know as well as I what more there is to it..." Dumbledore trailed off, contemplative of his next words. Merlin wondered what it was that the wizard wasn't sure he could say.

"When you adopted Tom, did you learn of his parents?" The professor phrased the question simply, but Merlin knew he was being probed.

He considered what he should let on. Dumbledore was not a man to be trifled with, that was for sure, but he seemed strangely inviting. As if despite his interrogative questioning, his motive was pure.

"If you're asking about Salazar Slytherin, professor, I am aware."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows a little and smiled. He was pleasantly surprised. Now, he spoke with more interest and vigour.

"There aren't many people who know about this heritage. I think, not even Tom himself. How is it you know?"

"As his guardian, I think it's my duty to know," Merlin replied, feeling that strange paternal feeling again, as he did whenever he felt his relationship with the boy questioned. "But I haven't told him, if that's what you mean."

"An incident occurred at the school not long ago," Dumbledore stroked his chin, musing. "A student was found breaking into the restricted section of the library. Amidst the confusion, a book managed to go missing, despite the fact that the student was caught red-handed."

"What are you insinuating–?"

"–I am not," Dumbledore raised a hand to stall Merlin's interjection, "insinuating anything. Only, a week later, Tom came to ask me about the Chamber of Secrets."

"I've heard the legends," Merlin replied, "but this seems unrelated."

"The book that went missing from the library contained all sorts of information about such a place. Tales that the heir of Slytherin would one day come to complete Salazar's noble work... If Tom knew of his heritage, and was to take up such an idea..."

Merlin scoffed. "Who's to say he would?"

"Don't pretend you are a fool. Don't act like you've not seen the darkness in this boy." At last Dumbledore spoke plainly. It was as Merlin had suspected.

"I took on Tom because I saw a child that I could help. A child. Not a monster, as you clearly believe. I really think he can be redeemed." To imply Tom would consider such an ideology shook his very core.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair with a grave expression.

"What are you going to do when he finds out?" He put Merlin on the spot. "You must be prepared, because if he hasn't already, he's bound to find out soon. I'm warning you, because he won't understand the nuance of the situation like you and I. He'll believe he had an absolute right to know, and the information was wrongfully kept from him."

"Well, I s'pose he'd be justified. He does have a right to know. I've just… been scared to tell him."

Gaius had kept Merlin's own father a secret from him, and discovering it had been devastating. But Gaius had been keeping an oath, he'd understood that, and forgiven him quickly. It didn't change that his initial anger had been justified.

With Tom, he had the opportunity to write an ancient wrong–to do things differently. But the situation was complicated in other ways. He worried that Tom would not be so forgiving.

"You're scared because you know I'm right."

"Why are you warning me about all this?" Merlin bit back. "Why? When it's clear to me that you want me to fail."

"I don't want you to fail, you have me all wrong there. But I am an older man than you are, I have seen more of the world's evils. I think you will fail, whether we like it or not. We must plan for that eventuality."

The irony of Dumbledore's words physically stung. The war-hardened professor had seen a mere fraction of the years–and the evils–that Merlin had. Merlin had heard much older creatures than Albus Dumbledore condemn his optimism, and to think how that had turned out. It was a miracle he had any hope left to give; Dumbledore would not crush it so easily.

His cynical visitor was still speaking. "Tom has stunning magical potential, but he's deeply troubled. I won't mince my words: I expect he will change the world. Perhaps for good, but most likely for ill. It would be against everything I stand for to let the boy take that path."

"Believe me," Merlin replied, "I'm aware of the pressure. But I try to stay positive."

Merlin wondered how Tom might be behaving at Hogwarts to make Dumbledore so convinced that there was little chance of reform. They were privy to opposite ends of Tom's life, and it was likely they both lacked the full picture. Dumbledore echoed this anxiety.

"Tom needs the right influence to keep him at bay. During my lessons, I can be there to keep an eye, but outside the classroom... I fret about what becomes of him. When my suspicions of his research into the Chamber began, I decided it was time to make contact with his life outside of Hogwarts. With you. I needed to know we were on the same page. I want to work with you to keep Tom from hurting anyone."

For the first time since his arrival, Dumbledore was almost apprehensive as he waited for Merlin's answer. He had formally proposed an alliance, but Merlin feared its conditions.

"I'm not sure we are on the same page," the old warlock glared. "With the right influence I think Tom can heal, not–as you would have it–be contained. At first, I worried about controlling him, but eventually I grew to realise there is an incredible young boy beyond that cold blockade he has built to survive. He needs love and care, not surveillance."

"That is understandable," Dumbledore replied, bravely meeting Merlin's fiery gaze.

But Merlin didn't think Dumbledore understood at all. He didn't like the way the man spoke about the Riddle boy. He sought to protect others from the harm he thought Tom might commit, and as genuinely concerned as he may sound, the professor did not care for Tom like Merlin did. He did not see Tom as a child, he saw Tom as a problem. It worried the old warlock to hear that the orphan might be getting involved in trouble, but it didn't take the thunderous look from his face.

"I'm sorry if I've snapped," Merlin finally tried to soften. He could see Dumbledore believed in his own cause, and that he only wanted to help. It wasn't entirely fair to dismiss him.

"I guess I just feel some sort of... duty," he said, but the word could not articulate how he felt. "I know others often see Tom as something he is not. You can't see him like I do."

The professor hummed, the specific nature of Merlin's care finally dawning on him. He was not dealing with orphan and ward, but something akin to father and son.

Merlin smiled to himself, but the sadness clung to his voice as he spoke. "I went into this hoping to keep an enemy close. I guess you can never predict growing so attached."

At this comment Dumbledore's gentle smile solidified into a frown.

"Don't fall in love with your enemies, Mr Thomas," he ground out. "It's a devastating thing."

It was Merlin's turn to feel scalded by the strength of his words. This time, when Dumbledore spoke, there was no twinkle in his bright blue eyes. Instead, they shone with foreboding. He was distant, as if his advice was not only to Merlin, but also to someone from long ago.

"It's easy to be bitter about the past–believe me, I know better than anyone," the weary sorcerer replied, "but whatever grudges you hold from your relationship with Grindewald shouldn't affect this–"

"–You should hold your tongue," Dumbledore interrupted, simmering, "on matters you don't know anything about."

Merlin had struck a nerve.

"Okay, sorry. But I'll say this: a wise friend once told me that my determination to see good in people would be my undoing." His gaze became unfocused as he remembered Kilgharah's words.

"Your friend was right." Dumbledore grumbled, swigging the last drops of tea from his mug. This was clearly not how the professor had envisioned this conversation would go.

"I thought maybe he was," Merlin continued, "but then, when I remained distant and suspicious of these people, I pushed them away. Some would say we would have been betrayed anyway, but I don't see it like that. My coldness was responsible."

By never allowing Mordred a chance; by ignoring the good in him, Merlin had brought about Arthur's doom. Whether it had been fated to happen or not, he still held himself personally responsible. He would not make the same mistake again with Tom. He had seen the good in him, he always would.

"So you see why I can't agree when you tell me that Tom is a monster. Or that I can't let myself become attached. Care and attachment are exactly what can help Tom, don't you get it?"

This time Dumbledore did not try to counter him. His visitor had realised they were at a stalemate. Each had the shadowy ghost of a past mistake to hold them firm. The professor nodded slowly, his face softening again. Their conversation took on a new chord of understanding.

"Very well," the professor said, "perhaps our values are different, but I do see that you're an honest man. I think it's our differences that make us so helpful to one another. Can I make you another proposal?"

Merlin nodded.

"If my warnings are correct, and the darkness within your boy is too fundamental to be changed, then our communication will help me to deal with the consequences." Merlin instinctively went to interject, but the professor stopped him. "If, on the other hand, you are successful, and Tom heals in your care… then we can discuss how best to support him in that. I s'pose my point is: I am willing to accept your optimism for the boy, if you're willing to accept my wariness. Then whichever way this turns out, one of us can pick up where the other leaves off."

Dumbledore was eloquent, and convincing. Perhaps it was safer this way, Merlin thought, to cover all bases. It would mean he finally had a way to check on Tom at Hogwarts, and it was important that he kept abreast of the boy's research into his heritage and the Chamber of Secrets.

Merlin nodded, they shook hands.

Relieved that business was over, he opened up. "Hot cocoa?"

"That would be lovely." Dumbledore beamed, also relaxing. "And you wouldn't happen to have any–"

"–Whipped cream?"

"Exactly." The professor lit up. "I can see it now: we're going to get along well, you and I."

Merlin tipped his head. "Maybe."

10th July 1940...

Merlin rocked apprehensively on his heels, staring expectantly at the growing speck in the distance that was the Hogwarts express pulling in at last.

A minute later the station erupted as floods of people disembarked from the steaming red engine, attempting to say goodbye to their friends, dodging unbalanced trolleys to find a path to their waiting families. It was a cacophony of flying trunks, chattering owls and hooting wizards, but Merlin remained still.

Tom knew where he'd be waiting. Eventually, a slight, pale figure squeezed his way through the surging crowd. He looked up at Merlin in instant recognition, and the lonely warlock's heart leapt.

Swept up by the sight of him, it took Merlin a second to notice that Tom Riddle was striding toward him with a thunderous expression. The boy stopped inches from his guardian, looking him dead in the eyes in a way that could make a man sweat.

"Did you know?" He demanded. When Merlin only gaped, Tom reached out and gripped the sleeve of his guardian's coat, speaking more desperately. "Mo, did you know?"

"I–I don't know what…" He floundered.

"About Slytherin," Tom was shaking his arm now, trying to get a response, "did you know about Salazar Slytherin?"

Merlin's confusion fell deftly away from him. His head dropped, but the boy forced him to maintain eye contact. He was angry, but justified.

Merlin sighed, shoulders sloping. He brought a hand to his brow to shield the guilt on his face. Dumbledore had warned him. He should have seen this coming.

"Yes," he resigned. "I knew."

Chapter Text

10th July 1940...

"Did you know about Salazar Slytherin?"

"Yes," Merlin resigned, "I knew."

Tom tipped his head back to the sky at Merlin's sheepish admittance, like he couldn't stand the sight of him. Internally, the warlock was kicking himself.

Dumbledore had warned him of this when they had met a few months ago and it had caught up with him sooner than he'd hoped. He wanted more time, but knew that no amount would ever be enough.

He tried to still his pounding heartbeat. He couldn't allow a slip in composure, this ordeal was only just beginning. He was determined to prove to Dumbledore (and deep down, himself) that just because Tom knew about his heritage, did not mean he would inevitably take up Salazar's work.

Tom had little to no interest in muggles, he had no reason to harm them, and the rumours about Salazar's real intentions had been uncertain even at the time...

The Riddle boy let the silence drag, holding Merlin beneath his glare, daring him to find anything good enough to say. He prayed that Tom would keep his cool. He was overtly aware of their tense position in the midst of the movement across the rest of the platform, and he didn't want it to draw attention.

He attempted to guide Tom to a quieter spot, but he wriggled his shoulder free from Merlin's touch.

"Tom…" he said, trying to still him. "Let's talk about this when we get home."

"Ah, yes," Tom replied sharply, "let's talk when it's convenient for you."

Merlin had to admit, this struck a nerve.

"Okay then, we can do this here." He gestured to a rusty bench against the wall. The platform was gradually emptying; some families still milled about in conversation, but no one noticed the pair of them as they retreated stiffly to the seat. They sat a few feet apart, and Merlin watched Tom through deep furrows of worry. He wanted this to be okay.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Tom's cold eyes melted to reveal genuine hurt. The boy had thought Merlin was on his side, and he had broken that trust. Tom was probably angry at himself, believing this to be a grave mistake.

He had been in Tom's shoes, he'd felt his betrayal when Gaius had kept his father's whereabouts a secret. It was strange to find himself on the other end of this conversation, in his mentor's shoes. He'd felt so close to Gaius these last few years, and he tried to think what his almost-father would have done.

To salvage the situation he had no tools but his honesty.

"I was scared. That's the truth of it. I'm sorry." He didn't know what else he could say. Any reasons seemed totally ridiculous, despite that up til now he'd been convinced by them. He had naively hoped it would never matter. That he'd never have to explain. He knew that telling Tom when he first arrived would have been unwise, but he struggled to stand by it now. The Tom of those days would certainly have sought out the darkest rumours about Salazar, and taken them up with great pleasure–like a birthright. But that was two years ago, and they'd come a long way.

Tom raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "That's not an excuse. This isn't like your wandless magic, Mo. This isn't your secret to keep."

Merlin couldn't help but feel a fluttering in his chest at the mention, and he looked around them quickly to check for eavesdroppers. Tom noticed this action and cocked his head. He pitied Merlin's desire to hide his skills, but made no move to challenge it.

"I know that. I'm sorry." The old warlock hung his head.

Tom scoffed in response. Sorry didn't cut it, so Merlin went on.

"There isn't exactly an easy way to talk about Salazar Slytherin, no doubt you know that. The reasons he was forced out of Hogwarts by the other founders are shrouded in uncertainty. If I told you you were his heir, I feared what conclusions you might draw; what things you might go in search of. I thought I was protecting you."

Tom shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes clouded with intensity. Merlin gripped the handle of the bench beside him. Surely he couldn't lose everything they'd built like this?

"But you admit it. I am his heir. And I don't care that you want to tip-toe around this, I'm not a child anymore, I can handle difficult stuff. It's my family–and I've never had that before, so damn what people think of him."

Merlin inhaled sharply. He was so quick to place Balinor on a pedestal when he'd found out he was alive. He had never thought how hurt Gaius might've been to have his surrogate son dismiss him over a biological father that he'd never met. But he had to ignore this pain as Tom's rant went on.

"It's my destiny to redeem him." There was that awful word. "It must be. I'm going to restore the noble name of Slytherin, and take back everything that's been kept from me. I'll build a legacy he'd be proud of."

Merlin's expression darkened at this, and he noticed Tom's conviction falter a little. Tom could try all he liked to deny it, but he still cared what Merlin thought of him. To the old warlock, at least, it was a small reassurance.

"I don't know what you've read," he warned, "but the sources are all clear on one thing: Salazar Slytherin didn't want muggle-borns at Hogwarts. He held a deep hatred of non-magical folk. You are better than that. I've taught you better than that, you understand?"

Every wizard, no matter their background, had the right to learn magic. After all the blood that had been shed to get to a point where sorcerers could learn freely, Merlin felt duty bound (to Tom and to his role as Emrys) to ensure that the Riddle boy didn't threaten that. If wizards ever claimed power over muggles, the cycle of revenge would begin again.

Tom looked shaken by Merlin's strong words, but he soon swallowed down his emotions. When he didn't reply, Merlin reached across to him.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," Tom begrudged. "I really don't care about muggles, Mo. Their lives don't concern me. But it's no wonder Slytherin hated them, when they were burning his kind at the stake for a weekend activity. He was misunderstood… just like me. I care about restoring his honour. How has one of the greatest wizards to ever live been reduced to this?" Tom gestured to himself, to Merlin, to the rusty bench. He swung his legs hopelessly in front of him. "I've always known that some larger destiny is mine. This is it. And you kept it from me."

Merlin sighed as Tom spoke again with such reverence for destiny. Merlin hardly knew what it meant anymore. Tom thought the vision and his magic was all connected to it. A noble birthright would certainly seal the deal. Merlin didn't like the way Tom still adopted and 'us' and 'them' framing when he spoke about non-magical people, but Dumbledore had been wrong about Tom wishing harm on them. On his father, maybe, but under Merlin's care, he no longer saw the whole of the muggle world as his enemy.

The platform was empty now, and Merlin shuffled along the bench closer to the boy. His initial anger seemed to have fizzled out, leaving a seething silence in its wake.

"How did you find out?" Merlin asked eventually.

"I don't think I owe you any explanation. Since all you do is lie to me."

"That's not fair." They each had their own secrets.

"I barely even know who you are," Tom muttered almost inaudibly.

Familiar guilt choked his heart as he forced himself to ignore the comment. He knew he was walking a thin line. Keeping things from those he cared about was all he knew. It didn't mean there was nothing genuine about him. You could have no idea of a person's past or heritage, and still come to know them intimately. Or, he hoped so.

Not bothering to take out his wand, Merlin raised a hand toward Tom's briefcase and it lifted gently into his grasp. The boy's anger was subdued, but Merlin had lost trust that he might never get back. The consequences of this mistake were no doubt already upon him.

"Come on," he said absently, "let's go home."

4th August 1940...

Tom often wondered what Mo did whilst he was at Hogwarts.

"I've had all sorts of jobs," his guardian had told him upon inquiry. He said that he often worked as a translator of ancient runes, but was doing a bit of his own research at the moment. When Tom had asked what that research was, Mo had just brushed it off with another vague reply.

This evening he'd popped out for a few hours on "business" to pick up some new books to translate. Tom was never sure what to believe with Mo, but had let this slide. The man had appeared from his study with a large satchel and then promptly vanished into the early evening.

Mo wouldn't be out long. There had been an urgency in his guardian's eyes, but it would eventually be overridden by Mo's strange urge to stick to Tom like glue. He had limited time to act.

Tom's suspicions about Mo's study had been planted the moment it had been declared out of bounds. That was over two years ago now. Still, the Riddle boy hadn't glimpsed any of its contents. Mo's secrets were always going to plague the back of his mind, but now Tom had something of his own to focus on. And that was far more alluring.

He was filled with pride and a sense of inevitability, as if this missing piece had been a long time coming. Gleefully, he closed his eyes and turned the idea over in his head once more. Just to be sure he'd taken it in.

He, Tom Riddle, was a descendant of one of the greatest wizards to ever live. The founder of his very house. The most famous speaker of parseltongue in history. And a wizard whom, like Tom, had been wrongly rejected by those around him.

This had to be the answer to the great void he'd always felt within himself. He'd called it many names: a lack of power, control, knowledge. But until now his attainment of these things had done nothing to fill the hole, only making him more restless. At last, he'd landed on the answer. Family would make him whole.

Mo had shown himself to be nothing but an obstacle to this. He was a lonely man. Maybe he saw Tom's real family as a threat to their bond. Of course, it didn't matter, he'd torn that all by himself.

But even Mo had once admitted that he thought Salazar Slytherin had been wrongly judged. The book from the restricted section had echoed the same. It contained all sorts of mysteries about the castle, but had talked at length about the Chamber of Secrets.

Why would Slytherin build such a place if not to protect Hogwarts? Muggle-borns nowadays were insignificant, despite what Mo preached, but in the days of the founders they had been a threat to the safety of the other students at the school. So what if a few wizards were denied entry? It had kept the rest of Hogwarts safe from hateful outsiders. He understood Salazar had adapted to the threats of the time by any means necessary, as any shrewd Slytherin would.

When the other founders had not listened to this, it was only natural for his ancestor to take matters into his own hands, Tom thought. To make sure of his legacy. To create the Chamber as a warning for those who challenged him, and in the future perhaps to be a reminder that he was right.

If only Tom could find it!

After all, who would dare betray him if he commanded a basilisk? Granted, that was only rumour, but so was the existence of the Chamber in the first place.

Tom's relationship with snakes had always felt natural; one of those innate things you're surprised to learn is unique to you, and is impossible to imagine existing without. Like perfect pitch, or photographic memory. It had been the eureka moment in his discovery, along with his mother's name of Gaunt. There was unease about the skill among wizards, so for now he was keeping it up his sleeve.

If he could locate the chamber of secrets, unimaginable power lay at his fingertips, and he'd rather keep that under wraps. If any nosey staff caught on to what he knew, they'd surely try to stop him. That was the running theme amongst adults: they didn't like him knowing things he was supposedly too young to handle. He'd prove everyone wrong, and someday they'd know about it… for now, he was playing the long game.

He'd returned his borrowed tome to the restricted section just before the beginning of the summer, and after all it had taught him about Hogwarts he knew he would have to make a visit to that part of the library again. Just the thought of what other knowledge awaited him kept him buzzing, but he restrained himself from becoming impatient. He hoped he could still continue his research over the summer, even if he couldn't be at Hogwarts.

His task now was to try and find out more about Salazar's work. He felt that the Chamber of Secrets was vital to this, but he still had misgivings. Tom had heard the spiel from the Gryffindors about Slytherin's hatred of muggle-borns, but this motive was outdated, and failed to inspire him. Even Mo felt Salazar had been more complex than this one idea, and for some reason his guardian's suggestion of Slytherin's secret honour compelled Tom to uncover it.

From his family's shrouded past he would have to mould a new image. So, if not to continue Salazar's infamous work, what path would he take to fulfill his destiny?

He'd examined every detail he remembered from his vision, but nothing had been revealed to him about the exact circumstances of his rise to power. He'd read about pensives, and the idea of being able to view the vision again was very tempting. Perhaps Mo had one of those in his study.

When he returned to Hogwarts he would also pry into Slughorn. Dumbledore, whom he'd already asked about the Chamber, hadn't seemed keen to divulge anything on the topic, but Slughorn was a fool, and Tom had come to like him for it. He was soft and harmless, but Tom had to credit his vast knowledge outside of the curriculum. All he had to do was play along with the professor's desperately named 'Slug-club', and the man would spill almost anything to him. He was the only person who seemed remotely interested in helping Tom. It was refreshing not to be treated like a child.

Mo had made it pretty clear he wouldn't approve of Tom's research. In fact, he'd seemed scared by the idea. Mo's disapproval had not wounded him. He shoved any such thoughts firmly aside. It had only strengthened his resolve.

But it seemed for the foreseeable future he would be working alone.

He worked best that way, or, that was the only way he had ever worked. It allowed him to tackle the biggest questions; things no one else would understand. Like the problem with time.

Through his reading, he'd realised this inevitable cycle felled all great wizards (heroes and villains) in the end. They ran out of time. Whatever rose–be it Camelot, or Hogwarts, or dark wizards of the ages–always fell at the feet of the turning years. Tom had thought long and hard about how this could be avoided. If he wanted to make a permanent stamp on the earth, and ensure his legacy, he'd have to be just that. Permanent.

The idea of death didn't suit him much, but the cycle of life was unbreakable, there was nothing he could do. He told himself to pull his focus back to the present, but he just couldn't resist the allure. What if he could create something that would last forever?

Again, the legend of Camelot stuck out in his mind, and the great sorcerer, Merlin. Why was it that those stories, and that man, had been immortalised? Camelot had fallen anyway, but it seemed to live on in memory. If Merlin had lived forever, would the great city have survived too?

Somehow, Tom didn't think even the Hogwarts library could answer these questions, and he wasn't sure when he'd next be able to steal into the restricted section.

So his eyes had begun to wander over to Mo's study.

The problem, of course, lay with how to get in. Tom cursed the running theme. One day he wouldn't have to do all this sneaking around. One day he'd be respected, and no one would bar him from the world's knowledge.

Mo would say that some information had to remain protected, lest it fall into the wrong hands, but Mo's word was hardly something Tom respected any more. Or at least he told himself he shouldn't.

If he could get into Mo's study, he could get one back, for lack of a better phrase. Mo had held secrets that weren't his to keep, so Tom would ignore the rules that had been set in place. Mo didn't have to find out, but in Tom's mind it would put them at evens. An eye for an eye. Then, maybe, Tom wouldn't feel so frustrated when he found himself wanting to trust the man again and again.

Mo had seemed genuinely remorseful about withholding Tom's lineage from him. He'd admitted sheepishly to being too scared to tell him. Mo was always unnecessarily scared, and perhaps it was a good thing he feared what Tom could do, but the Riddle boy struggled to fully convince himself of this.

In the end, Tom ignored his misgivings. Whether Mo was sorry for what he'd done or not didn't matter to him. He had been betrayed by the only person he thought he might be able to trust. It was either he blamed Mo, or he had to turn that anger on himself, for allowing it to happen.

He'd looked up to Mo. Not like he did the founders or Merlin or other great wizards of the past, but in a way he'd never understood. He had wanted Mo's approval, but no more. Now his guardian had shown his true colours: that he was happy to keep Tom from the very knowledge he sought most. That he was happy to keep Tom from who he was.

That, surely, Tom couldn't forgive. That, surely, warranted what he was about to try and do. He took the hairpin that he'd been chewing from between his lips, and went to the door.

The ferns parted before the quiet sorcerer's feet without even touching. The ancient forest was bowing its head, ushering him home.

Merlin hadn't been back to the lake for a long time. He did his best to keep away from the glittering water and long, soft grasses... but something always drew him back.

Or rather, someone.

The urge had crept in at the start of the summer, and he'd known it was only a matter of time before he surrendered to it. This place brought him as much peace as it did pain.

As the old warlock made his way slowly toward the edge of the trees, he caught flashes of evening light reflecting through the undergrowth from the lake beyond. He paused by a gnarled oak with thick bark to place his satchel down in a familiar hollow. The magic here slowed the natural changes in the landscape, and Merlin had always found things seemed the same as before. As if Avalon formed a protective sphere around where Arthur rested.

Merlin lent against the oak, an arm around the thick trunk as he gripped the tree for support. In a rare moment, he allowed the floodgates to open and pull him back.

There, ahead of him, was the stretch of grass where the great dragon had laid the limp King down gently, and told Merlin that Arthur would rise again. Merlin wasn't even sure he believed it any more. Perhaps the dragon had sought to bring him some sort of reassurance, or purpose to the long years he would soon face alone.

Upon that bank, Arthur had died.

He felt a shudder of despair run through him. He thought of the world that had died along with his best friend. That same pain he had felt letting the boat with Arthur's body out onto the lake reared its head. It had lost its harsh potency, dulled by the years, but it still stung, and made his knees weak.

Could he even be sure any of it was real? So much time had passed. It was impossible for Merlin to comprehend sometimes just how long he had spent on this earth. Camelot had slipped from all memory, save a few legends, which no one wholly believed. Merlin was the only proof that the old world had existed, but if he met his younger self now, he doubted if they'd even recognise each other. Time had not aged him, but it had changed him in almost every way.

He began to make his way forward again with an instinctive caution. When he emerged from the trees before the great golden expanse of water, he felt suddenly vulnerable, powerless.

He half expected a circling kestrel or buzzard to pluck him from the exposed bank like a field vole. Before it meant anything else, his mother had named him after a bird of prey. A gorgeous creature, but it had never felt very fitting.

There was nowhere to hide here. But he needed her.

In a trance, Merlin found himself beside the shore, water lapping at the hem of his clothes.

"Freya," he croaked, the sound coming to his throat with difficulty. But he hardly needed to say a word; already the water before him had begun to glow and swirl. From the deep blue came a pale light that gently pulsed, enthralling Merlin's senses as waves of magic washed over him. The figure of a woman rose from the light.

"Merlin."

He smiled, caressed by the sound of his name. His real name, that suddenly fit him perfectly.

He looked up at Freya, his breath taken from him. She was beautiful. She was always beautiful. He couldn't help but wonder how he still deserved her: he was a crumpled and foolish old man, and she the goddess and guardian of all he held dear.

"What troubles you?" She reached out her hand, instinctively sensing his purpose. It wasn't hard to guess–nor was it fair on her–that he only came here when he was troubled.

For a while he didn't answer. He sat down in the long grass on the lakeshore, and tucked his knees up to his chest against the cold. He breathed in the cool air coming off the water, and gazed up at Freya's soft features. Water clung to her clothes and her eyelashes, and her eyes seemed to sparkle despite the drawing darkness. He looked at her, and he felt warm inside.

"I've intervened with the world again," he said after a while, "I know I don't often, and it always brings me pain in the end... but it feels important this time."

Freya drew closer to him as he spoke, though there always remained that gaping distance between them. She could not leave the lake to hold his hand, he could not embrace her as he so longed to do. The old religion was cruel in barring him from Avalon. This lakeshore was as close to the veil between the worlds as his immortal soul could reach.

"Then I trust it is important." Freya reassured him.

"I'm not sure what to do, Freya. I don't want to make another mistake."

Merlin stared up at the darkening sky above him, the stars beginning to blink through the clouds. And he began to talk. He told the Lady of the Lake of all that had happened in the last few years: all the time he'd spent trying to build a bond with this boy who might destroy the world. The fact that Tom was so very clever, and how much Merlin felt the burden of constant vigilance, being so careful with everything he said. The fact that he was at a loss of what to do anymore: he couldn't risk revealing his identity to Tom, but the more he kept from the boy the more their relationship fractured. But he stressed above all the care he harboured for Tom Riddle, and the potential for good he saw in him.

"I keep things from him because I fear what he might do with the information, but then the very fact that I withhold the truth is what drives us apart!" Merlin planted his forehead into his knees. It was a comfort to finally share it with someone, he would realise later.

"You're brave, Merlin," Freya said softly, surprising the crumpled man before her. "Anyone else in your position would choose to abandon the present world, but you don't. You cannot help but see the good still to acomplish."

"That would all be great, if anything actually good was coming of it."

"You can't do everything." She was frank. "You may need some help." Freya was right–she was always right–but Merlin protested anyway.

"I don't want to involve anyone more than I already have. It's not fair to drag them into this." Martha was a welcome companion, but he'd pulled her in deep enough already, and he still didn't know if he could trust Dumbledore whole-heartedly.

"From what you've told me of Martha, she's made it clear she wants to be a part of this. You have to let her. And the teacher, too. You've got allies in more places than you think." Freya locked Merlin's gaze. He imagined her reaching out to cup his face in earnest. If only she could; he'd do anything she asked.

"You're not alone, Merlin."

He tried to believe her. Freya sensed his unease.

"You're worried about Tom finding out about you," she said, "so ask yourself this: why can't he know who you truly are?"

She allowed Merlin to think over this in silence. It was a fair question. He'd spent so many hours fretting over hiding his true identity from Tom, that he sometimes lost sight of why he bothered. Part of him wanted Tom–or anyone–to know, but the rational part of him recoiled.

"He can't know, because–because no one knows," he eventually let out. "I sometimes wonder if I do anymore. Tom's so ambitious it's scary sometimes–what if he found out about the man I used to be, and used my backing for terrible deeds? I don't think I could cope with the pedestal he might put me up on… the way he reacted when I told him about my wandless abilities... he was confused why I hadn't used my powers to get ahead. But that isn't me! It twists me up just to think about." He ripped up a fistfull of grass in frustration. "Not only that, I can't risk word getting out to the wizarding world that I exist. I'm not the Merlin that they have all heard legends of. I'm no leader, I'm a lesser man. After enduring all these years, I am changed. When people talk of Emrys I feel so estranged. To reveal to someone who I truly am would still feel like a lie, in the end, because I haven't been Merlin for centuries."

Merlin looked back at Freya, his eyes having wandered into the middle distance with his outpouring. There was rare anger in her expression that grounded him.

"You are still that man, Merlin. My Merlin. No less. You've always said to me that whilst you live with many names, who you are is always the same? Maybe the past is painful to remember, but to forsake it is to deny a part of yourself. It is to say you feel estranged from your dearest friends, and from me."

"Are they–" Merlin choked on the question.

Freya shook her head, smiled sadly. She could never tell him whether his friends had made it to Avalon. Whether he might see them again.

She was the only part of that world that he still had a connection to, but Freya still felt at a distance from him, and when he looked into her eyes he could see that she knew this all too well.

"You're right though," he said. "If you didn't call me my name, I'd still struggle to forget it. Those years aren't just memory, they haunt me."

"The past should never haunt you, Merlin. Let it guide you. If you don't want Tom to know you by your true name, that's okay, but don't be afraid to go to him. Ask him what it is he wants to know."

Merlin grimaced, trying to overcome his reluctance and open his mind. Freya delivered one last blow.

"If there's one thing to learn from your past," she said, "it's not to push away the people you love."

Merlin's jaw went slack, his heart ached. He couldn't argue with her.

"Go now, before you lose him."

Merlin nodded. "I know, I know now."

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

"I'm glad you came." Freya called, as he sat up to wring water from the hem of his coat. She was kneeled now in the shallow water, which rose up to her torso and held a residual glow. Merlin couldn't help but smile as he caught her gaze.

"Sorry it's been so long. This place is..." Merlin drifted.

"It's bittersweet," she murmured.

"Yeah."

They knelt before each other in the quiet. Sometimes when Merlin came they would talk long into the night about weightless things until they forgot the distance between them. Sometimes, when things were too heavy to speak, they would take comfort in each other's presence, and not say a word.

Merlin would wonder, in these moments, of the life he might have had with Freya when they conspired to run away together all those years ago. Arthur would have died far earlier, that was for sure. Though, perhaps the chains of destiny would have been somehow broken, and deadly encounters would have ceased to follow the Prince wherever he went. Maybe.

He sometimes thought that Freya's real curse was never her transformations, but that Merlin cared about her. His small dallience from destiny had marked her out and sealed her fate. When he'd sobbed to her about this she'd refuted it entirely, but the idea of the curse lingered.

The evening had faded into night, and Merlin drew himself up from the grass, his limbs stiff and his trousers damp and cold.

Freya laughed gently at the state of him, but she couldn't hide her sadness. He was leaving again.

The old warlock retreated from the shore. If he turned to say goodbye, he'd only be compelled to stay longer. Freya made one last call to him from behind.

"One day you will join me," she said. "There's a reason you have been made to wander the earth for so long. Perhaps it's to wait for Arthur's return, or to help this boy, but one day you'll know peace, and I will touch you again."

Merlin closed his eyes and took one last breath of the clear, fresh air. His magic hummed in tune with the steady beating of the old religion, giving him the briefest taste of hope. He willed Freya's words to be true, but had to discard them. London called.

He didn't look back as he returned to the trees, picking up his satchel and disappearing into the night.

An hour later, Merlin paced hastily down the familiar twitton. He'd walked a couple of miles from the Lake of Avalon, and then aparated. It felt wrong to come and go from the sacred hollow by anything other than foot. It was almost a quarter past ten, and he'd been gone far too long already.

He ran through the conversation he wanted to have with Tom. Maybe they would sit down with hot cocoa, or he would make up some food and they could just... talk. Of course it was never that simple, but he hoped to set things right with the boy.

He'd made sure to weigh his satchel down with the "books" he'd said he was going out to collect from a particular archive, and he hoped Tom wouldn't further question the nature of his outing. He didn't like leaving the boy on his own in the house, but he knew he'd be able to sense if something went wrong whilst he was gone.

He picked up exactly this feeling as he rounded the street corner. His rhythmic stride faltered and he stalled before he got to the house.

Nothing was glaringly wrong–nothing that he would have felt from further afield, but all was not right either.

He put a steadying hand on the front gate and sent out tendrils of magic to probe the enchantments on the house. Nothing had damaged them, but a tiny sensation, like the vibration of a fly in the outer rim of a spider's web, tipped Merlin off.

Someone, albeit unsuccessfully, was prodding one of his wards.

Merlin paced it to the front door, then he stilled himself before entering the house. His heart hammered in his chest and threatened to give him away, but he forced a small amount of cushioning magic into his motions so that he moved without a sound. He slotted the key silently, praying all the while that this wasn't what he thought it was.

Once the old warlock was standing on the doormat just inside the hallway, the cause for the alarm became clear.

He could just about see through into the kitchen, where Tom was pressed up against the door to Merlin's study, brow creased in concentration. One palm was splayed against the wood and Merlin watched him easing a hairpin in and out of the keyhole, listening. He recognised that Tom was trying to copy the times he may have seen Merlin enter his study. He used his palm to press a small pulse of energy into the door, which upon recognising the warlock's magical signature, would allow him to unlock it. It was simple, but really quite ingenious. He had been inspired by muggles' use of fingerprint identification. Much like a print, each wizard's magic was intricately unique.

Despite Merlin being fully aware Tom wouldn't find a way through the locked door, his limbs turned to lead. The bond of trust he had come to rekindle was snuffed out by a sharp breeze.

Merlin closed his eyes and tried to keep himself from crumpling.

He was too late.

"Tom?" He said it so quietly, he wondered if the boy would even hear. But he did. He froze, his back still turned, the message received loud and clear.

Just what do you think you're doing?

He struggled to conjure the anger that a figure of authority should have in this moment. He just paced through the deathly silence towards the boy. Tom could only glare at the floor, and squeeze the hairpin tightly in his fist, no doubt ready to defend himself. Instead of rage, Merlin felt only a cold disappointment descend on him; directed both at Tom, and himself.

He was standing directly over the Riddle boy now, in a way that could have been menacing if it was not for his thoroughly defeated posture. It was a few moments before he found his voice.

"I didn't know you could pick locks."

It was a fact often ignored by wizards that a door under a simple locking spell could still be picked by hand. Thankfully, Merlin's spells were more resistant to loopholes. Tom ground his teeth together, disgruntled.

I'm not going to tell you off," Merlin said. Tom's eyes shot up at him. "I can't. I mean, I can't blame you."

"How...?" Tom murmured beneath his breath. His lips were parted as he looked back towards the hallway, and then down at Merlin's muddy boots, the grass stains on his knees, the smell of lake water coming off his clothes. Neither of them had been honest about their dealings tonight, and they had caught each other red-handed.

There was a strained silence. Merlin and Tom were often happy to endure long silences in each other's company, but this felt different. Neither of them were remotely comfortable. Tom refused to break, so Merlin cleared his throat.

"Okay, I am a bit surprised," he said. "I sort of thought you'd be smarter."

"What?" Tom chomped the bit reflexively.

"Well you aren't usually brash. I'm not saying you don't make trouble, I mean you don't get caught." Tom narrowed his eyes. The idea was doubly insulting, because it suggested Merlin knew about Tom's escapades even though he tried to hide them. "You acted out. You're angry, I get it."

"So what if I am?" This time the boy could meet Merlin's eyes. Tom found his feet in anger, it gave him security, and it stamped out his guilt. But his remorse at being caught had not gone unnoticed. In fact, it gave Merlin hope.

"Tell me about it, please." Merlin grasped Tom's hand. "I know I messed up. It's tearing me to bits that it's come between us like this. I didn't just go out for books, I also went to think–that's why I'm such a state. I need to stop being a coward, because I can't lose you over this." Tom's eyes widened with curiosity. "Whatever it is you need, let me hear it. Let me answer."

Merlin collapsed his armchair, and gestured to Tom to sit opposite him. Slightly dumbfounded, he sank cautiously between the cushions, his hand still firmly wrapped around the hairpin, a subtle defense of his actions. Merlin ignored this, for once he was certain of what needed to be done.

"At King's Cross I was wrong," he admitted. "I'm disappointed in you, believe me, but I know I'm to blame."

Tom scoffed quietly, looking around himself and shaking his head.

"Here we are," he said eventually, "on your terms."

"I know. I'm sorry I took this long." Merlin cringed at the direct attack. Tom knew Merlin floundered when he was caught off guard, and preferred to prepare his words. He could usually ramble his way out of things when under pressure, but Tom was too clever.

"I can't trust you. You've lost me already." The boy said the words like he was bored of repeating them.

"Then what can I do to win you back?"

Tom actually thought about this. "Tell me about when you were at Hogwarts." He said unexpectedly.

Merlin peered across at him. "Why?"

"Because! I want to feel like I know something about you. Have you got any idea what it's like to live with a guy who barely exists? You're a complete mystery." Tom's expression flickered with hurt, but he reeled himself back in. The truth of the matter had tumbled out on accident.

It was no wonder Tom had gone searching for answers when he was fighting the same battle on all fronts. Merlin had not truly considered that he was a part of Tom's history now, and that was included in his right to know where he came from. He wondered how he could go about it. Having never been to Hogwarts as a student, he couldn't really answer the question, but he could certainly draw on similar experiences.

"Well, I was actually sorted into Slytherin," he began. Tom's jaw almost dropped. "But I spent most of my time with kids in Hufflepuff. I had a lot more in common with them on face-value and I appreciated their diligence and kindness." Merlin thought of his first friend in Camelot, Gwen, the only person in the city who'd introduced herself to–and praised–the village idiot who was in the stocks twice a week.

"It was a running joke that I was in the wrong house. I s'pose the system is much greyer than you'd think." Merlin had never put the sorting hat on. It had been described to him, and he was thoroughly terrified of the idea. He enjoyed chastising the house-system at Hogwarts as a result, but he'd be lying to say he hadn't considered where he might've been sorted, or how life as a normal wizard could've been.

"I was terrible at Quidditch, but more gifted at Charms. Transfiguration gave me a headache at first, but I stayed up all night once, trying to bring this statue of a dog to life, and I got the hang of it after that. I loved Care of Magical Creatures, I think I got that gift from my father." Merlin was on a roll now, the details coming easily. Tom's eyes were huge and he was captivated. "You know, I was a bit of a nobody as far as alumni go, but I like to think I worked a lot behind the scenes. I mean, I certainly knew how to sneak around the castle." He remembered his late night escapades; releasing captive druid girls, spying on trolls and visiting cranky old dragons beneath the castle.

Tom laughed. "Wait–sneaking around? As in, you broke the rules?"

"Believe me," Merlin raised an eyebrow, "I broke a fair few." His existence as a sorcerer had broken the first rule of Camelot, it was easy to keep going from there.

Sensing Merlin was not going to expand on what rules he had broken, Tom pressed again.

"I've heard Hogwarts has hidden rooms, did you ever find any?" The question appeared innocent, measured. But as Merlin conjured more memories of secret vaults beneath Camelot, it dawned on him what Tom could be asking about. Merlin's confusion about why Tom had used this Q and A session to talk about Hogwarts, of all things, promptly dissipated.

What could he say? He couldn't just brush it off this time, that would defeat the whole purpose of the conversation. And wasn't like he knew where the Chamber of Secrets was, either.

At the time of the founders, rumours had been rife following Salazar Slytherin's flight from Hogwarts. Merlin had been roaming South with the last of the Druids, but news had travelled the length of the mainland about monsters planted within the walls of the school. Arguments about persecution and protection had split the community, making them more vulnerable to attack. Whether Salazar had indeed left a chamber beneath Hogwarts, or if it was all just a heightened metaphor of the times... Merlin couldn't say. Tom wouldn't be the first to scour the castle for signs of it, and so far nothing had publicly been found. There had been speculations that Salazar must have protected his legacy at Hogwarts with his rarest skill: parseltongue. Then only his heirs, those sympathetic to his plight (or, as he might've thought, worthy of his work) could find it. Merlin's knowledge of the legends ended there. Enthusiastic historians had proposed all sorts of serpentine beasts, but there had been no conclusive evidence to say Slytherin had left a trace when he abandoned the school.

Tom sat opposite him, his head tilted innocently, expectant.

"Why do you ask? Are you looking for something?" Merlin feigned ignorance.

"I thought I was asking the questions." Tom raised an eyebrow.

Merlin levelled him and changed the subject. "I think you're forgetting that you got caught breaking one of the only rules I ever set. It was an invasion of privacy. And you never thought to just ask me?"

Merlin felt betrayed, but no doubt Tom did too. Maybe the playing field was level now.

"Like you'd give me the answers," Tom said, eyeing the locked door. "Tell me the reason why you're as secretive as you are."

Merlin didn't reply. He'd considered it long and hard, but there were some things about himself that Tom could never know.

"I'll never hide anything from you about yourself again, I can make you that promise. But you may have to make your peace with my secrets. Every man has his demons. I'm sure you know." He met Tom's eyes, and spoke to him like an adult. Dancing around this fact did nothing for either of them, and Tom was much more reciprocative to his new approach. He softened with respect.

Merlin continued to be frank. "You're planning to search for the Chamber of Secrets, aren't you."

Tom stiffened and tried to bury his reaction, but Merlin saw through it.

"There isn't any point denying it."

Merlin had worried what Tom would do when he discovered he was Slytherin's heir, but now he could see a way to mitigate that risk. Telling Tom he shouldn't try to trace Salazar's legacy would do nothing to deter him, and would only make him more secretive. But if he were to support it, he might be able to guide Tom through his discovery in the right way. Maybe the boy genuinely would reform the house of Slytherin, out of the darkness that had shrouded it for a thousand years. It would be a good thing for Tom to apply himself to.

"I have to try. Nothing you say or do will stop me." There was unwanted apprehension in the boy's tone. He wanted Merlin's approval, but wished that he didn't.

"Is that why you were trying to break into my study?"

Tom paused, then nodded. It was unlikely that this encompassed the full reason, but it offered Tom a way out.

"I thought you might have some information. I know you've got lots of books, and I hadn't heard a thing about it besides the legends." The boy spoke a half truth. Merlin knew from Dumbledore that Tom's research was more extensive than he was letting on.

"Again, you never thought to ask first? I'm sure I've got some helpful reading."

Tom looked up from his interlocked hands. He seemed startled.

"You'd help me?" He said, incredulous. His face was creased with disbelief.

"You say you want to restore Slytherin's honour. I believe you. I don't want it to drive us apart, I see what it means to you."

Tom was silent.

"What is it?"

"I so thought you'd disapprove." Tom replied.

"Not everyone's working against you, you know that?" The corners of Merlin's mouth twitched up in a half-smile. Tom did not know what it felt like to have an ally, so it made sense he'd have a hard time believing it when faced with one.

Merlin's talk with Freya had made him realise he needed to show his support more openly, or Tom would never feel comfortable turning to him for it.

"Are you sure this isn't some sort of surveillance scheme?" His suspicion followed as if on cue.

Merlin shook his head. Dumbledore would certainly see it that way, but Merlin genuinely just wanted to be involved in Tom's life. He didn't want to see the boy stray down the wrong path, but more than that, he wanted to see him happy. It had been a while since he'd had that privilege.

"I'm sure." He replied, and no one could mistake the earnestness with which he spoke.

Tom sat back, satisfied but perplexed. He was finding it difficult to comprehend that Merlin wanted to help.

"I'll have a look at my study later. If I find anything, you'll be the first to know. There's all sorts written in ancient runes that get overlooked." Merlin doubted he could cough up much on the Chamber, but perhaps he could find a few more things on the founders. It was a start.

Sensing that the mood was finally relaxing, Merlin tried his question again.

"How did you know?"

He hardly needed to specify what he was referring to. Tom looked for a moment as if he wasn't going to reply, but after some consideration, he spoke.

"Well, I can speak to snakes."

Oh. Merlin reeled at how obvious it was, and what a foreboding quality the innocent statement carried with it. He was touched by Tom's honesty, but there was no denying now the formidable force that curled up in the armchair opposite, rolled his eyes like a teenager, and shrugged.